


The Art of Seeing Clearly

by screengeekdiaries



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Benny Lafitte & Dean Winchester Friendship, Blind Castiel, Blind Character, Blood, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean, Coffee Shops, Community: deancasbigbang, DCBB 2015, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Love, M/M, Painter Dean, Painting, Sex, Swearing, Top Castiel, Topping from the Bottom, dcbb 15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-04-30 02:36:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 36,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5147138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screengeekdiaries/pseuds/screengeekdiaries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you get when you cross an up and coming artist with a high profile, make or break gallery exhibition? Procrastination, a non-existant muse and a major case of impending doom. Or at least that’s the punchline when your name is Dean Winchester.</p><p>Things don’t get off to the best start when, on a quest for caffeine to jump start his painter’s block, Dean literally bumps into Castiel and Alfie – pouring coffee on a man and his guide dog isn’t really the best way to say hello. Although it gives Dean a great excuse to make it up to him, and so offers to take Cas on a tour of his favourite city. But while Dean shows Cas the grand sights that helped inspire his artistic journey, Cas shows him the smaller ones, the ones that make his darkened life that little bit brighter. Together, they learn that art, such as life, doesn’t have to be seen in the same way to make it beautiful. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll help each other see the world that little bit more clearly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to take the time to thank all the amazing people who helped me get this, my first ever DCBB fic, to where it is today!
> 
> To Jill, for all the amazeballs artwork you've lovingly crafted <3 I've never had art created for one of my works before, and they are beautiful! That you for being on this 'first timer' journey with me!
> 
> To my sister Meg, who has never watched Supernatural, but has allowed me to bounce ideas and progress updates off of her for the best part of this year. Thank you for putting up with my nonsense (and for reading the smutty buts when I told you not too) <3
> 
> And to Liz, my wonderful, extraordinary beta, who took my rambled, incoherent mess of a fic and turned it into something legible, who patiently answered my daft questions at silly o'clock in the morning, and who's own work has helped inspired my own since I first joined this fandom. Thank you for getting me through this in one piece <3
> 
> And to everyone who reads The Art of Seeing Clearly - I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it! And thank you for reading <3 If you want to come find me on Tumblr, I'm ooohesslimandalittlebitfoxy!

“Guess who just booked the Lehmann for your next art opening?”

A veritable chill went through Dean’s body that had nothing to do with the wind whipping up in the street around him. Tightening his jacket, he pressed the phone closer to his ear, hoping to drown out the traffic. Perhaps he misheard? Maybe misunderstood... _Oh fuck. This is real. This is happening._

“That’s great Jody. Really. That’s... awesome.”

“Well try to sound a little more excited about it why don’tcha” came his manager’s reply; she was about as straightforward and no nonsense as her hair cut suggested. “This is Lehmann we’re talking ‘bout – the big leagues! I worked my ass off to get you guys this gig.”

Dean gulped, feeling instantly guilty, and dug deep to redouble his efforts. He pictured his roommate receiving the news – the big galumph would be throwing his hat with joy and shaking his ass all over town. But it was a struggle to emulate, given the early hour and lack of caffeine in his system. _She doesn’t have to do this_ he reminded himself sternly. _She has better things to do with her time._

“Sorry Jodes. I mean it. Honest.” The silence warmed up a few notches. “When’s it booked for?”

“July 5th –"  _Shit!_ “-so I hope you’ve made some headway with your work.”

“Yes ma’am!” Dean mock saluted, pushing aside the memory of half empty canvases waiting for him at home - He crossed the street, too deep in his head to look out for oncoming traffic. A taxi beeped angrily. Nothing new there; they all did that here in New York - A quick subject change was needed before Jody uncovered the lie. She was like a fucking bloodhound when it came to stuff like that. “How’s home life going?”

“Urgh,” came the tense reply, which Dean just had to laugh at “I forgot how peppy she was! She was up making pancakes at seven today, sang me ‘good morning’ and everything. Not one cup of coffee in her body! Remind me why I thought moving in together was a good idea?”

Dean smiled fondly at the image of the bubbly blonde ball of sunshine smiling at a grouchy morning Jody. She may have been his manager nowadays, but he and Jody went way back – looking out for Dean and his brother back when they first arrived in the city – and in all the years they’d been friends, Donna, her partner, had been the best thing that ever happened to her. Besides him and Sam of course. They were as different as the sun and the moon, and just as perfect for each other. The kind of relationship that Dean aspired to have and envied in equal measure.

“Because, and I’m quoting your last drunken text to me, you ‘wuv’ her.” Jody grumbled; a sure sign that Dean had won.

“Anyway,” she started, switching topics back to more important things “I best get on and tell Benny the good news too – maybe that way one of you will remember the date.”

“What makes you think I’ll forget?”

“When did I say it was?”

Dean stopped, racking his sleep-deprived brain. Jeez, he needed coffee and fast. “Good point.”

“It’s like I know you or something.” She signed off, hanging up the phone. Dean pocketed his own, burying his hands deep in the warm leather lining. It was a beautiful spring morning down in Williamsburg, Brooklyn; the sun, just poking its head above the brow of the buildings, cast a watery glow down the street that brightened even the dustbin bags out waiting for collection. Shop signs were being hauled out, signalling the start of a brand new day, interspersed by trees filled with the blooms of spring – bright, hardy flora designed, he suspected, to withstand the extreme temperature changes and air pollution. Beautiful. And he was far too tired to appreciate it.

What he needed was a Red Eye, stat!

The glass of Dean’s favourite coffee shop coming towards him was both a blessing and a curse, because, well, coffee was within his grasp! But judging by the bloodshot eyes staring back at him (although pale in comparison to the skin on his nose and cheeks – it was like freaking Rudolph was staring back at him), Dean was overdue his fix by about 12 hours. Nothing quite like a looming gallery opening and artists block to keep you up at night.

He grumbled, scrubbed at the scruff on his face, and entered.

The queue in Crowley’s Cafe, as it was every morning, was full to the brim with early bird commuters; doctors, lawyers, pilots, even an office manager or two, suit after suit after suit lining up for the same legal pick-me-up to get them through their busy days. That was the thing about this city, Dean mused, basking in the warmth the shop had to offer – it didn’t matter if you were the lowliest janitor or the highest judge, everyone was the same when it came to coffee. Yet he still tried to sneak to the back of the queue, hoping his paint splattered jeans didn’t ruin the line’s aesthetic as they inched closer, one by one, towards nirvana.

As the hustle and bustle of the shop rambled on, Dean thought back to where he left his roommate thirty minutes earlier – bundled in blankets on the sofa, snoring his goddamn head off – and felt the envy rise as the coffee poured. Unlike him, Benny was well ahead of schedule on his own work. _Lucky bastard._ Why wasn’t he out getting their coffee? Why did he need coffee anyway? Dean would have been sorely tempted to ‘forget’ his mate’s order, but he couldn’t sacrifice the breakfast that was inevitably waiting for him back home. Dean salivated; there were many, many things Dean would be willing to forgo when Benny’s bacon baps were on the line...

“Hey Reindeer Games! Triple red eye and a mocha, take it while it’s gross.”

Shaking himself back into consciousness, Dean plucked the cups from the brunette’s hand, her sore excuse of a smile disappearing as soon as his money was hers. Dean couldn’t really blame her, morning shifts were a drag, but was the stink eye really necessary? He walked off, choosing instead to focus on more important things.

After dumping half the sugar sachets into his coffee (none for Benny, he was ‘cleansing’) Dean breathed deep, letting the warm aroma fill his nostrils, letting it settle in his bones before taking his first gulp, head buzzing happily from the rush. He sighed, contented; nothing quite like a shot of pure caffeine to the veins to wake you up in the morning. With the warmth of their coffee seeping into his skin and the thought of bacon dancing in his head, Dean left the coffee shop a darn sight happier than when he had entered. A happiness that felt like he could take on the world, do anything, even make some headway on his gallery pieces...

A happiness that was short-lived as the door flew open, a man walked into him, and his coffee’s got sent flying in all directions.

“Watch where you’re going, asshat!” Dean snapped, the last reaches of his patience snapping like a twig as he looked down in outrage at the stain on his jacket; the one good thing he had going today and it was gone! His hands - one empty, one gripping a scrunched Styrofoam cup - were held aloft to highlight his indignation for everyone to see. The still open door let the cold morning wind slap across his face, doing little to harbour the anger blossoming in his chest. He didn’t care if he was making a scene. Nor did he care for the laughter that rippled from the man as Dean bent down to rescue what little remained of his other mug.

“My apologies sir. I’ll endeavour to ‘watch’ where I’m going in the future.”

Dean was too caught up in staring sullenly down at his lost coffee to really pay attention to what the man was saying, but he couldn’t fail to notice the big bundle of fur parked next to him on the lino. Especially when said haystack started licking his face with its big, wet tongue. Green eyes met brown as he finally looked up, coming face to face with a big happy Labrador – tongue lolling, smiling away despite the recent drenching it just experienced. Experienced not only by him, but by everyone else in the building which, rather suddenly, came screaming back into Dean’s world view.

The entire room had pitched from a general noisy hubbub to pin drop silence, and not the _haha you idiot, this film’s being uploaded to Youtube_ kind of silence either. More like the icy, _you’re a real fucking dick you know that?_ kind of silence, one that had Dean’s skin crawling, knowing without looking that he’d cocked up in a really bad way. And only when he dared to look up, up, up did he notice the dog’s luminous jacket, bright against the once-golden fur; followed the handle up to where the dregs of his much longed for drink were dripping down the man’s jumper - a yellow and black striped number, almost as dazzling as the dogs. For the record, it kind of looked like it should come with a pair of deely boppers - and finally, the dark, dark sunglasses perched on the end of the guy’s nose, and right above a righteous smile.

Tension ramped in the room as his brain shut down, mouth gaping uselessly open. No sentences would come, no words would form. Bullet sized sweat started to bead on his forehead as he shuffled - worse than the fleabag likely does on parquet flooring. Dean gulped; this was without a doubt the worst, most awkward moment of his life.

_I can make this right; I will make this right…_

_Oh fuck. I just told a blind guy to ‘watch’ where he was going!_

*~*~*

“So let me get this straight,” Sam said, face scrunched in unbridled disbelief at the story Dean just told, “You spill hot coffee on a guy and his dog – a blind guy at that – and instead of trying to help him you run away?”

Dean nodded, head buried deep in his hands as he slumped on the saggy sofa; a red leather number they’d found sitting on a street corner. He was back at the flat after running at breakneck speed down 5th, questioning glances thrown his way the entire sprint (they must have thought he’d robbed a paint shop or something). His best friend and his brother certainly had a few when he came barrelling in, drenched in a sweat/coffee bean mixture and holding an empty Styrofoam container.

“Dean!”

“I know alright? I already feel bad about it without you piling on.” Running fingers across his face he stared doggedly down at Sammy, sitting cross legged on the floor in front of him. Despite being buried in a sea of lofty law books and notepads (seriously, they were fanned out in a circle, taking up half the floor space in their self appointed living room area) he still had time to throw a bitchy eye roll Deans way.

The loft was all open plan and steel girders with a beautiful view over the New York Harbour, little hints left over of its previous life as a warehouse. Some bright spark had decided it would be a great idea to convert it into a set of studio apartments for those hip, trendy people who had a dime to their name to truly showcase what little furniture they had. Ridiculous for most, but for Dean and Benny it was perfect. They’d snapped it up the second they saw it, having searched for weeks for something that could hold more than a paintbrush. And for a fraction of the price too; Dean suspected the seller was about as desperate as they were.

It was so big it even dwarfed Benny; the man had a bouncer’s physique and a teddy bear attitude, and somehow managed to look both threatening and sweet at the same time. A cheeky smile broke through his beard as he wafted Dean’s coffee in front of his face, teaslingly, temptingly.

“Quit poutin’ Chief, I made it just the way you like it.” Squinting, Dean weighed up his options.

“Three sugars?”

“Sickeningly sweet ya weirdo.” Well, Dean couldn’t say no to that.

“I hate you” he grumbled, holding the warm ceramic close to his chest – one of Sam’s early childhood efforts.

“Love ya too brother” Benny replied, ruffling Dean’s hair just the way he hated. He responded by throwing him his dirtiest stink eye over the rim of his mug, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a contented sigh; Benny made a mean coffee.

“So what are you even doing here Sasquatch?”

“Library’s full and I have an exam next week.”

“Yes, and don’t you have a perfectly good apartment to study in? One that I’m helping to pay for might I add?”

“Yes, but that flat is also home to a roommate who smokes weed when he’s stressed." Sam grumbled. "Between that or here, I pick here.”

“Ok but don’t go complaining when you get paint splatters in your books again.”

“You’re still working on that piece from two weeks ago?”

“Sammy, we’re on Version 3.0 of that one from two weeks ago.” Benny jumped in, plopping a fresh coffee in front of the student.

“Why? What was wrong –"

“-don’t say it-“

“-With the other two?” Sam finished. Benny clapped a hand over his face and groaned, waiting for the speech.

“What was wrong with them?!” Dean cried.

“Here we go.”

“The brush work was sloppy, the colours refused to blend right, and don’t even get me started on the friggin’ concept –"

Slightly wide eyed at his brothers’ tirade, Sam cast a quick peek at the canvases stacked angrily in the corner. Each one was a beautiful landscape of the New York skyline that, to Sam’s mind, perfectly captured not only their iconic beauty, but also why Dean was one of the hottest young artists in the city right now.

“Dean, they look fine –"

“They really don’t Sam! They’re boring and unoriginal and clichéd as hell. You don’t understand because you’re not an artist.”

“Oh yeah Chief, and what does that make me? I’m an artist and I’ve been telling you they’re fine for months.”

Dean scowled, pouting stubbornly, arms crossed tightly around his chest.

“You’re my friend, you have to say that.”

Sam stared up at Benny. Benny raised an eyebrow, I told you so written all over his face. “I regret even asking.” He finished, turning back to the logical embrace of his textbooks.

“Brother, we’ve been over this; your work is just as good as your previous stuff.”

"And that’s the problem, Benny! It needs to be better than ‘just as good’. At the moment it’s –“ he stared around at his work, propped up and drying against a skyline he’d painted last year “-exactly the same as what I’ve already done. I can’t showcase old news. I need something different, but...”

“What, the muses aren’t speaking to ya?” Benny smirked around his coffee. Dean threw him a done look to shut his stupid face, but as much as he didn’t want to be one of ‘those’ artists who could only work when something moved them... hell, who was he kidding? He was exactly one of those artists. And right now the only thing moving was the 12.15 cruise ship outside their window.

“Shame. Washed up at 25. So sad.” Benny may have been joking, but that was genuinely what scared Dean the most – that he would be outed as the one trick pony he really was, the art world would reject him, and all his hard work would have been for nothing. And if it was just his head on the line he wouldn’t have cared so much. But it was Sam’s head too – with school over as soon as his exams were done, Sam had every intention of going to Stanford in the fall, to earn his law degree and become the state’s top lawyer (well, Dean thought so at least. Sam was just focusing on being a good one) but he couldn’t do it without help. And help was hard to come by when thousands of kids were chasing the same scholarship. So if Sam didn’t get a full ride then he was going to need Dean’s help. How was he going to do that if he was living out of his car again…

“So what are you going to do?” Sam asked, clearly oblivious to the mental torture his brother was putting himself through.

“I dunno – sell my body? Draw caricatures of tourists on the boardwalk?”

Sam looked up, squinting. “I meant about the blind guy, Dean” he said as if it was obvious. Dean blinked, then again, all the excitement of the morning coming racing back to him.

“Look, it’s not even like I’ll see the dude again. New York is a big place, and there are plenty of coffee shops. Besides, even if he did, how’s he gonna know? It’s not like he could pick me out of a line up...”


	2. Chapter 2

It was a little over a week before Dean next set foot in Crowley’s again, and in that time he had almost made some headway with his work. ‘Almost’ meaning he spent the week knee deep in canvas and paint, pouring his heart into his latest creation until, in a late night fit of rage (which in no way was facilitated by half a bottle of Jack) he chucked it out the window into the East River below. It nearly floated all the way to the bridge too before the coastguard picked it up, Benny laughing his head off all the way.

So on the orders of Sam to ‘get out and get some fresh air’ (he didn’t find Dean destroying all his hard work nearly as funny as Benny did, and had been bitch facing about it every day since) he walked back into the shop, with every intention of treating today like every other normal day; no one would remember what happened. Hell, he bet over half the customers that had been there that day would never find themselves in the store again. Still, he took a moment to scout the place from the safety of the door – totally not looking out for a bee striped jumper - before stepping inside a might more sheepish than before.

For the first time in all the years he’d frequenting the shop, there was no queue out the door to be seen. _Maybe I should miss the morning rush more often._ In fact, despite the barista and the guy in the red hoodie in front of him, he was the only person in the entire shop. So he sighed, opening up his jacket to let the warmth in and waited his turn, dreaming lazily of hot coffee and a quick getaway. The relative quiet was bliss; no bitchy brothers or nagging managers to bring down his good mood.

In fact, the only fly in the otherwise good morning ointment was the soft _thump, thump_ of something against his leg. The colour drained from his face as he looked down; he may not have recognised the man from behind, but the dog... He’d recognise that dopey face anywhere.

_Sonofabitch! Abort! Abort!_

Judging by the increase in tail wagging speed the mutt sure as hell recognised him too. Dean silently pleaded with him to shush, backing away towards freedom, but only succeeding in making it woof louder; damn dog might as well have been shouting ‘Hey you! Yeah you!’ for all the good it was doing him. Still, he’d nearly made it to the door. _If I could just -_

“Don’t even think about it Freckles!” came a sharp hiss from across the shop floor Dean was trying to surreptitiously sneak back across. He turned, wincing, red-handed, only to see the rounded face of the brunette barista staring daggers at him from over the counter. _Oh that’s great, she would have to be the one working here today._ And just to add to the sudden shit pile that his morning was turning into, Hoodie guy had noticed all the commotion going on around him. “What is it boy?” he asked, bending down to give his hound a soothing pat.

As he turned, trying to gauge the general direction everyone was aiming for, Dean finally got his first proper look at the guy; the hoodie, big and baggy on his seemingly small frame, whilst not quite as bright as his previous clothing, was still a rather severe shade of red, the hood of which was hiding a thicket of dark, mussed up hair that was trying to escape out the front. Below sat the sunglasses, dark as ever, but now sporting frames so orange they clashed horribly with the scarlet surrounding them. Dean couldn’t tell if his face was in shadow or just naturally that tan, but it made those lips look pinker and plusher than they had any right to be. Especially when they began to speak.

 “My Spidey Senses are tingling…” The man muttered, voice as low and gravelly as his dog’s growl as he turned to sniff the air. Whatever whiff he caught made him spin so fast Dean reeled; like a goddamn heat seeking missile (smell seeking missile?) he locked onto Dean’s exact location, brow furrowed, staring him down. “Coffee Jerk, is that you?”

“Oh that’s him alright” The woman behind the counter confirmed, smile as dangerous as a sharks – _Run again and I’ll beat you with this coffee pot._ Dean stood still, curled in slightly on himself and closed his eyes, waiting, waiting for the shouting, the yelling, the barrage of ‘how dare you’s and every swear word under the sun to be thrown his way. He wouldn’t defend himself, he would deserve every word – nay, he expected every word.

What he didn’t expect was for the man to nod, turn back towards the counter, and very calmly say “I think I owe you a beverage.”

_Wait. What?_

Dean wasn’t sure what to make of what the guy just said. While the words had seemed nice enough, they were veiled in a thin layer of ice; Dean couldn’t work out whether it was because the guy was naturally standoffish or because he was pissed off at Dean and trying to hide it. At least the evil look staring at him across the counter was easier to read. But before Dean could even make a sound the man made a motion to step forward; the dog snapped back to its duty as if Dean was no longer there, keeping close, making sure his master didn’t bump into any hard surfaces.

“Ahh Megera, my favourite barista, I’d recognise that voice anywhere-a” He sing songed once he reached the counter, palm placed flat on the marble top.

“Cute Clarence, but you know my policy on poetry. Pay up or shut up.” Dean frowned, thinking her words were a little harsh (and certainly not in the normal realms of customer service etiquette) but the man simply smirked.

“Touche Miss Masters. So what’s my poison for today?”

“Oh, it’s my best yet. You’re gonna love it.” She grinned devilishly, placing the coffee in his hand. The man sipped, pulling a face.

“Lemon and hazelnut. Delightful” His warmer demeanour dropped as turned his red covered head a quarter to the left, as if waiting for something. Dean, apparently. “This would be the part where you tell me your order.”

“Oh, right!” Dean stepped up, shaking himself out of the haze that was his morning. “I’ll have a coffee, extra black, extra sugar.”

“Wow. Innovative.” Meg retorted in the emotionless way Dean had come to recognise her for. She plopped his coffee in front of him, not caring that some was running down the sides, before making a grab for his wrist. Surprised at the strength contained in such a small stature, the sheer pissed off-ness in her dark eyes, mere inches from his, Dean genuinely worried for a moment if he was gonna make it out the shop with both his kneecaps intact.

“You’re paying.” Was all she hissed before freeing him from her clutches. The palm print she left was like a warning brand on his arm, and he nearly dropped his wallet twice in his rush to get his money on the counter.  Out came ten dollars. “For both.” Out came another. Then Dean snatched up his coffee before she had time to throw it at him. Nothing more was spoken, but she watched him like a hawk from her perch against the espresso machine, letting him escape to the safety of the other side of the shop. Dean headed straight for the table where the man was now sitting, hood down, hair flying free in all directions. He approached quietly, afraid to disturb, until the man put down his cup and sighed irritably.

“Either say what you want to say or don’t say it at all. I don’t like people sneaking up on me.”

“Can I sit here?”

“If there is a chair there, then by all means. If not then you’ll probably end up on the floor, which may start to hurt after a while.”

Now it was Dean’s turn to sigh, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean... may I sit with you?”

The man took a second, mulling it over. “Sure.” He answered eventually. Dean took the seat quickly, desperate to get the words out he’d been holding in since he’d got there.

“Look, Clarence, I’m really sorry –“

“Who?”

“Errr, you? I thought Meg said your name was Clarence?”

“No, that would be her nickname for me.” He took another sip, clearly not enjoying the citrus/nut combination. “I’m Castiel by the way, since you didn’t ask.”

Dean shook his head, mentally cursing himself for his reoccurring rudeness; Jody would have kicked his ass from here to next week. “Sorry man. Hi, I’m Dean Winchester.” He said, trying for some politeness by offering a handshake. An offer he quickly retracted when he remembered the guy couldn’t fucking see his hand to take it _. Well done Winchester. Really knocking it out of the park there._

“Listen, Castiel, I wanted to say I’m sorry for the other day. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that, or said what I said –“

“Why?” Cas asked, seemingly earnest. “Because you told a blind guy to ‘watch where he was going’?”

Dean flushed. He deserved that. “Yeah, that wasn’t cool. But even if you weren’t, that was still a dick move on my part. That, and, errr...” he felt himself squirming at the memory again. Not helped by continued beady eyed stare of Ms Eavesdropper by the counter “... legging it without helping to clean you up. You and...?”

“Alfie” Castiel finished, voice growing warmer as it rolled off the tongue. The Labrador looked up at the sound of his name, whining gently till Castiel placed a hand down to pet him, groping around until a helpful nose bumped into his palm, guiding the way. “He’s been my guide dog for nearly two years now. My faithful companion and fierce protector.”

Dean bent slightly, eyeing up the golden goofball under the table; smiling away, tongue lolling out and everything.

“Yeah, he sure looks fierce from where I’m sitting.”

“That’s because I’m not the one who spilled hot coffee on him.” Whatever warmth that had filtered between them disappeared in a puff of smoke. Dean gulped; this conversation was turning into an emotional rollercoaster, and he had to choose whether to hang on for the ride or get the hell off.

“I know. And again, sorry. Look, I wanted to make it up to you in some way. Is there anything I can do for you, or help you out with –“

“Why? Because the blind guy clearly can’t look after himself?” Cas asked, motioning to himself. _Jeez this guy is intense!_ ButDean had to admit that despite the lack of colour coordination or a hairbrush, the guy did look very well put together.

“No! God no! I was just –“

“Relax, I was being facetious.” Dean had paled considerably, heart beating faster than when he ran down the street. Still, Castiel seemed to be mulling over his offer as he scratched between Alfie’s ears. “Ok, but not for me, for Alfie. My brother was supposed to take us to Fort Tryon so I could walk Alfie somewhere with less car smoke around, but he bailed last minute and now we can’t go.”

Dean sat there, confused, taking it all in, debating whether or not he was going to get his head bitten off for asking his next dumbass question.

“But if Alfie’s your guide dog, why can’t he help you get there?”

Surprisingly, a laugh escaped Castiel’s mouth, low and gravelly and apparently genuine. Dean sagged with relief.

“If we’d been there before, and I knew the route, then we probably could manage it. But we’ve only been living in the city a year and haven’t had the chance to go many places yet. So unless you can put a satnav in my dog,” Castiel’s smile quirked up at the corners at that mental imagery, “then I’d doubt we’d make it.”

Spurred on by the positive upturn in their conversation, Dean took the chance and ran with it.

“Great! Awesome! If you want, I could take you now. Fort Tryon is beautiful this time of year, you’ll –“ Dean corrected himself quickly “-Alfie’ll love it up there. I did my first painting up on Linden Terrace, it’s got a gorgeous view of the –“

“You’re an artist?”

Dean halted in his tracks; in his haste to sell the beauty of the park to the guy, he hadn’t realised he’d let the painting thing slip out.

“Errr, yeah. I paint.”

Cas sat straighter in his chair, gaze held somewhere around Dean’s chest. “I thought I could smell white spirit on you. White spirit and...” he sniffed the air again, dark lenses staring straight into his soul “... acrylic paint if I’m not mistaken. Are you any good?”

There was something about the sudden personal questions, the scarily accurate smell receptors and the eyeless eye contact that had Dean shuffling uncomfortably in his seat. He was usually such a charmer, a real people person, but this guy... this guy he was having real trouble pinning down.

“I sold a couple of canvases at an art gallery last year, it’s no big deal.”

“Is that a flirtation?”

 _Case in point._ “Excuse me?” But Cas didn’t answer him. Instead he turned in his seat, aiming his question at the brown haired barista.

“Hey Meg, is this guy seriously ‘famous’ or is he making stuff up to trick me into liking him?” Swear to god the guy did the air quotes and everything.

“Do I look like freaking Tourist Information? Look it up yourself.” Meg started to turn away, presumably to sharpen her claws, before being caught in the glare of her deeply frightening boss. He kind of reminded Dean of his Uncle Bobby, save for the darker hair, scheming eyes, and the look of a man who would kill anyone trying to place a baseball cap on his head. At the command of one raised eyebrow she turned back, reluctant, sighing, with a cheap and nasty smile plastered fast across her face.

Dean squirmed, knowing what was coming and wishing he could book the hell out of there. He never wanted a sales pitch attached to his work, just wanted to donate a painting to the shop to say thanks for all the free coffees over the years (and for not booting him out when he ‘accidently’ fell asleep in their booths). But Jody had had other ideas, saying it would be ‘good, free promotion’. Dean swore up and down she’d done it for her own amusement.

“Meg, seriously, you don’t have to –“

“Dean Winchester is one of New York’s most up and coming talents.” Her voice rose above his, effectively cutting him off. It had also taken on an overly perky life of its own, one usually reserved for infomercials and sales reps – given the normally bored candour of her voice, this was actually quite a feat. “Specialising in scenic paintings of this great city’s skyline, he won the (artist of the year comp?) in 2014, and is due to be showcasing his latest gallery later this year. We even have one of his most famous paintings hanging here in the shop” she fluttered one hand towards the general direction of his work “and can count him as one of our most loyal customers.” The fake cheeriness dropped like a hot potato the second her clearly rehearsed spiel was over. “Happy now?” she shot back at her boss, storming away before he had time to reply.

Cas turned back from the tirade, looking seemingly impressed by what he just heard. Dean made the mistake of getting his hopes up before Cas opened his mouth.

“So I’m in the presence of a genuine famous person. ‘We are not worthy!’” Cas bowed, head and hands, in a strangely southern accent. He seemed confused by the returning silence. “Seriously? ‘Wayne’s World’, Winchester, I was quoting ‘Wayne’s World’”.

Dean just stared blankly back, not entirely sure how he was supposed to respond to that. He’d heard of the movie, sure, but never watched it, and he couldn’t work out if the quote was a compliment or not.

“Ok then Mr Big Shot, Mr Hey-You-Get-Off-My-Cloud,” Castiel suddenly rose from the table, smiling, eyebrows raised and waiting for Dean to get the reference. “No? Were you not allowed to watch movies as a child?” Dean faltered his returning volley, trying to figure out the best comeback without revealing his less than stellar childhood (because this thing with Castiel? It had already gotten too personal for one day) but Castiel apparently didn’t do ‘waiting around’.

“Never mind. I’m taking you up on your offer. Let’s go to Fort Tryon.”

Dean would have offered to help Castiel up and out of the store – lent an escorting arm maybe? – but the guy had Alfie in hand and was halfway to the door by the time Dean had even scraped back his chair. Abandoning his now cold coffee he legged it across the shop, almost bumping into Castiel all over again as he stopped, turning in the doorway.

“Before I get into a complete stranger’s car, I need to do one thing.” Letting Alfie go altogether he raised both hands in the air. “May I be permitted to see your face?”

The request caught Dean off guard for just a second – both in its politeness and its obscurity.

“Sure, I guess. Why?”

But Castiel didn’t answer, concentrating instead on trying to read the air in front of him. Dean slowly repositioned himself directly in front of his hands. Long fingers found his nose. “There you are.” Castiel breathed softly.

The gentle brush of fingertips traced their way up his nose, curving along the jagged arch of his eyebrows. Dancing up the brow of his forehead they searched out for his hairline, following it round to the intricate whorls of his ears, tingling as Cas rang a soft finger against the shell. A thumb ran along the bow of his lip; a simple gesture that made Dean gasp a little in shock, eyelids fluttering closed, enjoying the sensation. As if Cas knew, his fingers went there next, carefully, oh so carefully, brushing along the delicate skin, feeling tiny veins and the flutter of lashes against the roughened pads. They ended their journey at his jaw, all straight lines and stubbled skin, and Dean let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. Cas stood before him as his eyes flew open, at least a couple of inches closer than he’d been before.

Dean bit his lip, unsure of what to say, still feeling the ghost of Cas’s skin upon his own. Was it wrong that Dean found the whole experience so... intimate?

Then Cas grinned, clapping hand to shoulder and effectively shattering the tension.

“There, now I know what you look like. You can’t run away from me, I’ll be able to find you.”

Dean pulled himself together long enough to respond without his voice breaking. “I dunno dude, New York is a big place; what you gonna do, feel up every persons face until you track me down?”

Cas cocked a smirk in his direction as he went to open the door. “You underestimate me, good sir.”


	3. Chapter 3

Dean, Castiel and Alfie made their way down the block to where Dean had parked his car, the only space he could find nearby thanks to the city’s constant lack of parking spaces. It was slow going at first, given Dean’s ‘trial by fire’ role as Castiel’s direction giver; he was really not used to having to be specific when it came to dodging objects (fire hydrants, rogue bin bags, people who didn’t move out of the way - Alfie tried his best, but some people were just rude) or when to turn corners (apparently just saying ‘turn left’ was not enough information – again, Alfie saved Cas from tipping headfirst off the pavement) and for once in his adult life Dean was forced to use proper road crossings. Though it was nice not nearly being hit by a taxi for once.

Still, with the exception of Cas stopping to “Spare any change, sir” from a nearby homeless guy – “Why shouldn’t I help Balthazar?” “Because he’ll more likely mug you for more money. And how the hell do you know his name?” -  they made it to the car in good time and with little to no arguments. At least until he was about to pull open the door and felt two soft brown eyes staring up at him.

“Erm....”

“Is there a problem?” Castiel enquired curiously.

“Not a problem as such, it’s just...” Dean braced himself. “I love my car. She’s my baby. Practically rebuilt her from the ground up.”

“And?”

“And I have this rule. Longstanding rule, really. A longstanding ‘no dogs in the car’ kind of rule.”

A long, heavy breath blew from Castiel’s nose.

“Let me get this straight. You spill hot coffee on me and my dog. Then you run away. And now, as you’re supposedly trying to make it up to us, you want me to... what? Just leave my dog on the side of the road for the sake of your upholstery?” His voice was low. Dangerously low. And it was beginning to attract looks from people walking past. Dean started backtracking the second the words left his mouth, kicking himself for being such a dick.

“No! No of course not, I never should have mentioned... It’s just this thing I have... of course he’s coming with us.” Dean’s heart was practically in his throat by this point. “Look maybe, maybe he could go in the boot? I’ll take the rack off the top so it’ll be nice and spacey for him.”

Alfie, apparently, had other ideas. Just as Dean opened up the back passenger side door to wrestle with the boot rack, Castiel let go of the handle that was essentially his lifeline for seeing. And at the command of a surreptitious wave of the hand, that great blond bundle of fur just hopped right in, parking his furry ass on the black leather bench. Dean groaned internally at the happily wagging fiend; that fur was going to be a _bitch_ to clean off tomorrow.

“My apologies. Alfie seems to have other ideas.”

Dean looked from one mischievous smile to the other – _what was that about dogs looking like their owners?_

“Perhaps we could come to some sort of compromise?”

*~*~*

The compromise they settled on was that Alfie could stay in the back seat (like Dean could really move him without looking like the world’s biggest douche) but the windows were to be rolled down at all times to avoid ‘dog stink’ settling into the leather – that shit wouldn’t come out no matter how many times you Frebreezed it. The whole situation was really a win-win for Alfie, whose head was currently hanging out of the window as they booked it down FDR Drive.

The open windows also seemed to be helping clear the leftover tension in the car; now it was awkwardly quiet as opposed to knife cuttingly tense, as neither of them knew quite what to say to each other – not surprising really, considering they were still virtually strangers to each other. Dean was slightly shocked at the thought. With everything that had happened between them, it was hard to remember that they’d only met a week ago. Cas seemed to be thriving better in the silence, making himself quite comfortable on the passenger’s side of the bench, whilst Dean stuck to concentrating extra hard on the road ahead. Not even the rocky chords of ACDC were doing much to help.

Dean racked his brain, trying to think of some topic of conversation he could start with the guy. Anything in the world. But every time he went to turn, to open his mouth, he chickened out. _Nut up Winchester! Castiel’s not that scary._ Yes, his overall demeanour had been unnervingly calm throughout everything that had happened – any other human would have at least shouted at him by now, if not punched him in the face – and yes, the clothes combo was a little out there, but he seemed ok enough.

_It’s not like he’s some crazy dude you picked up off the side of the road; you’ve got to at least try to get to know the guy before the journey ends…_

 But before he had time to rally his mind for question attempt number three, something caught his eye. Castiel, who had been mapping out his portion of the car around him, was now running his fingers steadily along the breadth of the ceiling, brow furrowed in concentration as if searching for something.

“What’re you doing?” Dean asked cautiously, refusing to put his foot in his mouth again.

“You don’t have a sunroof,” Castiel answered matter of factly, as if it were the only logical answer to Dean’s question. Dean, in turn, snorted.

“In a ’67 Chevy? Please, this ain’t no soccer mom van.” He went silent, either deep in thought or annoyed by Dean’s derision, he couldn’t tell. So Dean went back to the safer option of concentrating on the road. Until:

“May I be permitted to wind down the window then?”

“Errr, sure,” Dean nodded, though slightly confused by the request – _it was minus ten in the car, max, how was he still warm?_ “The crank’s on your right.” Castiel moved his hand to the door, then stopped, staring at Dean expectantly. It took a second for Dean to get it.

“Oh right! Down a bit.” Castiel moved his hand about an inch.

“Little bit more.” Another quarter of an inch.

“Seriously?”

“You have to be more precise Dean. Or that’s how I end up falling off pavements.”

Dean sighed, concealing a muffled ‘son of a bitch’.

“Put your hand down another three inches and its right by your knee. In fact it’s directly next to your knee. You’re pretty much kneeling on it.” Surprise surprise he found it quite easily. Dean rolled his eyes as Castiel turned the crank till the window was fully down, the sudden entrance of wind ruffling the feather edge tips of his hair. Passenger sated, Dean turned back to the road, wondering why the hell it was so important to Castiel that he drilled this into Dean’s head; the way things were going, it wasn’t like they were ever going to want to spend more time together again.

Dean was so far up inside his own head that he didn’t quite know what happened next – one minute they were cruising down the highway, the next Dean turned, only to find Castiel hanging out the passenger side window. Not just his head either; the whole upper half on his body was out of the car far enough that one wrong move would have him falling out of the car. How Dean didn’t pitch them all straight into a ditch from the shock was beyond him.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Dean screamed in horror, one hand reaching out to drag the lunatic back in by his jacket only for it to be batted away.

He could only just make out the perturbing response of “Relax, I do this all the time” floating in over the sound of honking cars.

“Not exactly comforting Cas! Get your ass back in this car!”

Sighing deep, he climbed back into the safety of the car. Dean didn’t feel like he deserved the annoyed look that was shooting in his general direction.

“Cas?”

“Sorry, Castie- don’t change the subject!”

“No no, it’s fine, I wasn’t – it’s just, no one’s called me ‘Cas’ before.” The thought lingered, but no explanation was given. Dean meant it when he said no subject change.  

“Come on, you’re an artist – aren’t you supposed to be all for pushing the boundaries of societies norms?”

Dean whipped mile wide eyes around to face his compatriot. _Is this guy for fucking real?!_ “Stereotype much? And since when did jumping out of a moving car count as ‘pushing boundaries’ and not ‘help I’ve just been kidnapped’?”

Castiel pouted, sitting low in his seat whilst Dean got a grip on his racing heart.

“Care to share with the rest of the class why you’re trying to give me a heart attack at 70mph?”

Defiantly, the dark haired man stayed facing the far distance in front of him. From the side angle Dean caught glimpses of his eyes; closed, lashes fluttering against his cheek. “Alfie likes to hang his head out of car windows” Castiel explained calmly; this was not how Dean expected the story to start. “And one day I got curious as to why he likes it so much. It’s not like I have much to do on car journeys anyway, I can’t exactly watch the world go by. And my brother’s choice of music is somewhat… juvenile to say the least. So I did it too, and I get it – you can’t really feel the movement of the car when you’re sat in it, but when you’re outside you really feel it - the wind blowing through your hair as you speed down the open road, and if you open your arms out wide enough –“ Cas spread his arms as he spoke, as if he could feel the wind dancing through his fingertips “it feels like flying. It feels... free.”

Stunned, Dean just sat there, silent and open mouthed. For all the emotionless sarcasm and dry wit he’d heard from the guy up until now, this was the first time Castiel had sounded... human. Like a human with real feelings and shit. Ok, so despite himself and the sheer madness of what he’d just witnessed, Dean could totally understand where Castiel was coming from. Hell, if Dean wasn’t driving right now he’d probably be out the window joining him.

But to hell with it if he was going to let Castiel know he condoned his reckless behaviour even in the slightest.

“Well that doesn’t sound insane in the slightest. Not to mention totally illegal.”

“Oh relax, it’s only illegal if you get caught.” _Ahh, there’s the Castiel I just about know and get mildly irritated by._ “I’ll be careful. You just shout if you see a police cruiser and I’ll come back in.”

And before Dean could say another word as Castiel took off out the window again, eyes closed as his dark hair ruffled in the breeze, his arms stretched out wide beckoning the wind, the sun and the open road. Dean, defeated, shook his head.

“Awesome. I picked up a madman.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Ok, so it’s just up here, we’ve got to swing a bit to the left...”

They made it to Fort Tryon in record time and without being pulled over by the cops (and to be honest Dean couldn’t decide which broken rule they didn’t get collared for was more impressive). Dean spent the rest of the ride wondering if this was all worth the hassle. But once they got into the park Dean was glad he’d agreed to do it, and not just because of the bouncy, wiggly dog who was clearly excited about trees and grass and other new things to pee on; as soon as he caught a whiff of the flowers growing by the entrance his previous worries eased, revelling in the memories conjured by this place. He always felt at peace in Fort Tryon.

So to say he was so excited he could burst at the prospect of introducing Castiel to one of his favourite places in the world was an understatement. He could barely contain it as they got closer and closer to Linden Terrace (Castiel’s smirk of amusement growing as Dean got more animated, talking faster and faster, hands whirling through the air) until finally they reached the railing.

“And here it is!” He exclaimed, casting an arm wide as if to show off the view. “Just look at that view, isn’t it beautiful?”

The sun reaching its peak in the sky had the water of the Hudson River glistening, reflections sparkling as they danced off Dean’s skin. Out of habit he tracked the water as it flowed, following its route to the George Washington Bridge, cutting a fine, majestic figure against the natural backdrop. And there, in the distance, surrounded by a frame of leaves from the bush on his left, was the New York skyline; not the majestic, awe inspiring, traditional skyline that New Yorkers and tourists alike like to see from the Brooklyn Bridge or the Empire State Building; no, this one was tiny in comparison, a handful of the city’s tallest buildings peeking out from behind the bride to say hello. This was the first view Dean ever saw of his city, back oh so many years ago, back when he and Sam were living under the roof of the very car they’d just exited, and was forever and always his favourite. He sighed happily, leaning against the railing, letting the sun and the view and his past wash over him. Forgetting, for a moment, that he wasn’t actually alone.

“Oh yes, I can really see what you were on about. Gorgeous.”

Irritated by having his for once happy mood unnecessarily dampened, Dean had had just about enough of the disdain dripping off every word. He turned, about to ask the man what the hell his problem was, when the sun chose that moment to glint off the sunglasses and hit Dean square in the face. Followed seconds later by his palm. Repeatedly. Once again, he’d forgotten the pretty important fact that Cas couldn’t see a damn thing; poor guy wasn’t even facing the right direction, his back getting treated to a great view of the iconic skyline. His stomach dropped.

“Dude, I-“

“Describe it to me.” Dean blinked, then blinked again. _Well that was unexpected._

“Huh?”

“Describe it to me, this spectacular view of yours.” Cas repeated as if talking to a three year old. Dean gulped, beginning to sweat bullets,

“Really? I mean, I’m not so great with words...”

“Winchester, if you can paint the view then you can describe the view.” Castiel retorted, clearly having none of Dean’s lame ass excuses. “All I ask is that you do a better job than my brother. He once described the Statue of Liberty as ‘a hundred foot tall, Lisa Simpson looking chick holding a Mr Whippy.” Dean gaped. He couldn’t decide what was worse; the request or the awful but begrudgingly apt description. He nodded eventually, deciding he would at least try.

“Ok, so let’s just...” Taking Castiel’s shoulders beneath his calloused hands he turned him round – couldn’t very well start this job without him looking the right way.

“Right, so that swooshing sound in front of you, that’s the Hudson River. It’s pretty big and flows from here all the way back to the main city. On your left –“ Castiel twisted his head slightly “-that’s it, is the George Washington Bridge, and beyond that is the New York skyline. It’s kind of hidden by the bridge but it’s there.” Dean finished, kind of proud of himself until Castiel thoroughly dumped on his efforts.

“That’s the best you can do?”

“Hey! It was my first try. Sorry I can’t measure up to your brother’s lofty heights.”

“No, you are already better than Gabriel. I just thought an artist such as yourself would have been a bit more... descriptive. But maybe I was wrong.” Dean knew he was goading him, could just tell. Dean rolled his shoulders, rising to the challenge.

“You want descriptive? I’ll give you descriptive.”

And so he did. Dean spent the next half an hour picking out every detail he could, from the glistening, lapping waves at the river’s edge to the way the sun glinted off the metal balustrades on the bridge. He even went as far as to pick out the buildings he could see in the distance, detailing their curves and/or rectangular edges and whether or not they had windows. By the end of it Dean was nearly out of breath, daring the man beside him to criticise his ‘lack of description’ now.

“Wow. A bit too flowery for my tastes, but kudos to you for trying.”  

“What the hell is your problem?” Dean finally snapped, the heat rising at Castiel’s initial reply of a snort that seemed to say ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

“My problem?”

“Yeah, your problem, your damage?”

“My _damage_ is that I hit my head in a three car pileup when I was eight and haven’t been able to see a thing since.” Dean faltered for a second, ingrained social niceties telling him to stop, apologise for being harsh to someone hit by a traumatic childhood, but he pushed down the feeling and rallied round it. He’d apologised far too many times today.

“Yeah well sorry dude, but you aren’t the first person in the world to have shit happen to you. That doesn’t give you the right to act like a condescending dick to people, especially to those who are giving you their help.”

“Help? You think what you’re doing is help?” Castiel’s voice was snide and low, somehow meaner for not shouting “I live in a world of complete darkness and I see people like you every day – people who feel so bad for the poor blind guy that ‘helping’ him for five minutes makes them feel so much better. Hate to break it to you Winchester, but this thing that you’re doing right now ‘for me’,” there came the sodding quotation marks again “is nothing more than pity.”

Dean exploded.

“Look, I’ve had it up to fucking here with you, ok? I’ve apologised to you, I’ve tried to make it up to you, and I’ve even offered to help – which, by the way, is not because I pity you, literally just me trying to help a guy out – but if you can’t get off your fucking high horse for more than five seconds, then I’m done with you. I’m out of here.” And with that Dean stormed off, muttering curses angrily under his breath all the way. He got a good mile or so down the path before he found a secluded scrub of grass, which apparently looked at Dean the wrong way given how he’d started to kick it. _Why was Castiel so... so... infuriating?!_ Dean roared, clumps flying through the air around him.

Once the plant life had been successfully defeated he stopped, taking a deep, angry breath through his nose. Looking up, he could still kind of see the guy from here, standing against the railing as if nothing had happened. And as much as he was tempted to do it, deep down he knew he couldn’t just abandon the guy in the middle of nowhere. Castiel may have been defiant, stubborn and annoying as all hell, but he was human, and probably angry at everything that had happened to him. Dean couldn’t imagine losing his eyesight, but to have it and then not? To live a life not truly knowing what was three feet in front of you, to have to put all your trust into a stick, a dog or another human being just to get from one place to the next? If it was Dean, he’d probably take it out on people too.

Castiel turned at the crunch of hard boots on gravel. “What’s the matter? Guilt weighing you down? Can’t leave a poor defenceless blind guy to fend for himself alone in the park?”

“Dude, with that ferocious beast you’ve got there, I’d hardly call you defenceless.” Dean shrugged, hands thrust in his pockets. “How’d you know it was me?”

A tap to the nose was all Dean needed. _Oh yeah, the paint smell thing._ “Listen, I may be a jerk, but I’m not that much of a jerk to leave you in this park with no ride home. Come on, I’ll take you back.”

Dean turned to start down the pathway but soon stopped, realising Castiel wasn’t following. Instead he was stood stock still, frowning, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. Alfie was at his feet, looking just as unsure as Dean was. “You’re genuinely not leaving without me, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Even after I’ve been such an assbutt to you.” It was more a statement of fact than a question.

“Especially not now you’ve admitted it.”

Cas sighed exasperatedly, as if Dean’s stubborn unwillingness to leave was wearing him thin. “Fine, I’ll go with you” he eventually conceded, starting off so fast that Alfie nearly skidded trying to catch him up. The pair practically blew past him, Dean almost forgetting to follow until Alfie looked back as if to say ‘Well? Aren’t you coming?’

 *~*~*

“So, do you want me to drop you off at home?”

“No, the coffee shop will be fine. I hardly think inviting you back to my flat is the socially accepted end to a first date.” Dean spluttered on his own air, nearly sending the car into a ditch for the second time that day.

“Remain calm, that was a joke.”Cas deadpanned, clearly amused by the sound of Dean’s reaction.

Luckily for Dean’s heart rate and his sanity, the glass front of Crowley’s soon loomed in to view. Dean pulled up to the curb, killing the engine as soon as wheel met pavement.

“Well, I can’t say today was boring.” Cas relayed into the silence as the car ticked over.  For the first time that day it was somewhat comfortable. But not quite sure how to respond to that, Dean pulled out a sketchbook and pen from his jacket pocket. He always kept one with him, in case inspiration struck whilst he was out – he’d been kicked out of too many restaurants over the years for ruining their tablecloths.

“Listen, I want you to have this.” Dean slipped a folded page onto Castiel’s knee “In case... I dunno, Gabriel bails on you again someday.”

Castiel fumbled, finding the paper on grope number three. “What is it?”

“My phone number.”

Castiel smirked. “Why didn’t you ask for my phone and programme it in yourself?”

“Because I want it to be your decision. If you never want to see me again, then lose it on the street somewhere. And if you do... well, I’m sure your brother would help dial it in for you.”

“Yeah, after ringing a Chinese takeaway and a chatline no doubt.”

They both smiled at the thought – Dean could just imagine doing the same to Sammy. Then Castiel clicked out of his seat belt, reaching for the door just as Dean instinctively went for his. “No no, I’ve got it.”

“You sure?”

“Of getting out of a car? Yes, Dean, I am sure.” Dean rolled his eyes, falling back into his seat but keeping a north eye on Cas’s progress, watching for any struggle as he went to collect Alfie. Save for a slight fumble for the back door handle, there was none. And by now, Dean wasn’t surprised. At least not until his head came back through the door. “By the way, I wanted to thank you for today. Consider yourself officially free of your debt to Alfie and I.”

Dean nodded. He hadn’t expected the gratitude, blasé as it was, but he’d take it. “Anytime man.”

Dean smiled a little, kind of sad it was over, at least until Cas decided he couldn’t leave without having the last word.

“Well, I’m sure I’ll ‘see’ you around...”

Dean groaned into his steering wheel. “Dude, seriously, enough with the blind jokes!”

“Why?” Cas asked, before slamming the door shut. “You started it.”

*~*~*

“Sooooooo?” Benny asked from the pot of gumbo he was stirring, “How did it go?”

“How did what go?” Dean asked distractedly, not looking up from his sketchbook. With his painting ideas still refusing to move on from the standstill stage, he’d decided to try to jump start them with some quick real life studies. And Sam, lying on his stomach in the midst of a mountain of textbooks, had become the perfect subject – his hair alone had taken nearly an hour to draw.

“You know,” continued Benny, trying to keep it casual to hide the _I’m not prying but I reallyreallyreally want to know!_ edge to his voice.  At which he was failing. Dismally. “Your date with Castiel?”

“IT WAS NOT A DATE!” Dean cried, throwing down his moleskin. Sam remained undisturbed, but Dean still lowered his voice. “It was not a date. Just one guy helping another guy out.” Dean continued, bending down to pick up his book.

“’Kay then Chief, riddle me this” Benny asked, putting the pot on to simmer and stepping out of the kitchenette. A heady wave of spice, smoke and sausage followed him out, making Dean salivate. “You bought the guy coffee.”

“Yes.”

“Then took a stroll in the park.”

“Yes.”

“And at the end of the day you gave him your number?”

“...Yes?” Dean squinted, wondering where his roommate was going with this. Benny clapped his hands in success.

“Well I dunno about you, but that sounds suspiciously like a date to me.”

“It. Was Not. A Date!” Dean seethed, throwing his arms in the air in defeat. He slumped on the couch, stony, silent, and stubbornly refusing to budge from his point. _A date doesn’t hit you with his cane. A date doesn’t leap from a moving car. And a date certainly doesn’t end with you threatening to leave them in the park!_ Not that they were ever going to hear that version of the story.

 The flat went quiet, save for Benny’s irritating chuckle.

“What happened to the dog?”

“...What?” Dean asked, lifting the arm drooped over his face.

“The dog, Dean.” Sam reiterated, throwing his brother a suspicious stare. “You said you drove Castiel to Fort Tryon’s Park. What happened to his dog?”

Utter confusion rode Dean’s face. “He came with us you idjit.”  

Now it was Sam’s turn to look confused. “But what about Rule Number 1? ‘No dogs in the car’?”

“I couldn’t just leave him at the side of the road, what kind of monster do you think I am?”

“You hate dogs.” Sam summarised; a well worn, well known and lifelong fact to everyone who so much as even heard of his brother.

Dean shrugged. “Alfie’s alright, I guess.”

Dean couldn’t explain the look that passed between the two men in front of him; a conversation he certainly wasn’t privy to, but was certainly the headline act. A shrug, a nose scrunch and a nod of agreement later both turned back to face him in creepy synchronicity, wearing a matching pair of smug ass grins.

“It was a date.”

“I’m gonna fucking kill –“ The strains of ‘Stairway to Heaven’ filled the flat as Dean’s pocket vibrated, cutting off the assassination attempt on his brother. With a righteous look of _this conversation is over_ he turned his back on the pair, hitting the answer button as he went.

“Hello?”

“Hello Dean,” said a deep, gravelly voice that could only belong to one person. “I was wondering how you felt about date number 2?”


	5. Chapter 5

The next week Dean and Castiel decided to go to the Brooklyn Bridge, both for the view and so that if they ended up arguing again, Castiel could make his way home by himself. Which of course meant that, due to the proximity, they ended up meeting in Crowley’s again, much to the amusement of Meg and her latest creation – Orange and Mint. It was like drinking juice too soon after cleaning your teeth. But still he took it with a Styrofoam salute, making his way back over to their table. Dean knew he had to ask.

“So what’s with the gut-bustlingly awful coffee?”

“Meg got bored of serving me the same coffee day after day, so she decided I needed to spice things up a bit.” He took a sip, face scrunching as he swallowed.

“But if you don’t like her ‘concoctions’ why do you keep paying for it?”

Castiel shrugged. “’What’s life without whimsy?’” He paused. “Big Bang Theory? No?” He sighed, continuing where he’d left off, “with a routine as strictly regular as mine and Alfie’s, it pays to keep things interesting. And I’m beginning to suspect you don’t even own a TV.”

“I own a TV! Dean barked, before sullenly stirring his coffee “It’s just on lock down at the moment. Apparently watching TV doesn’t count as doing my work, even if I’m sketching at the same time.”

An eyebrow rose over the rim of his sunglasses, today a bright blue. “Who told you that?”

“Jody, my manager. Benny, my roommate. Even Sam, actually.” Dean laughed a little as the list grew. “Sam’s my younger brother. Tall, gangly, like super smart. Graduating college soon, top of his class.” He smiled the smile of a proud big brother just thinking about Sam, before realising he was moving off topic. “Anyway, they all think I’m a procrastinator.”

“They would be correct.”

“Hey!”

“Well you’re the one who said you had this important gallery opening coming up. Offering to ferry me around the city doesn’t exactly count as ‘working’ now does it?” 

“I have been working! But things have just been... slow going. Kind of got a bit of a painters block thing, you know? So getting out of the flat, seeing the sights with you, I’m hoping will spark some idea that will help me finish my collection. As well as help you out of course.” Dean finished quickly, hoping Cas didn’t think, once again, that he was doing this all for his own selfish gain. Cas just sat there, thinking.

“Well, that settles it then.”

Dean looked at him warily. “Settles what?”

“First, we’re going to the Brooklyn Bridge. And afterwards, we’re going back to your place – I think I need to see this work of yours.”

*~*~*

“So this must be Sam!”

Sam stopped, startled by both the sudden proclamation and the fact there were suddenly people in the flat. Despite telling them he’d be gone all day, Dean and Cas got back to the flat around mid afternoon, Cas’s relentless need to see Dean’s paintings only having grown as the day wore on, probably not helped by the fact Dean had painted the Brooklyn Bridge for his collection a year earlier. So they’d cut their trip short and headed back, Sam apparently not noticing his brother’s shout of “We’re back!” twenty minutes earlier.

And now here he was, stood stock still between the beat up sofa and his pile of revision, wondering exactly why his brother and the multi coloured stranger were laughing at him. Not that he’d been extra sneaky or anything on his walk over from the kitchen, but Cas’s ability to notice people around him had a tendency to freak people out if they weren’t expecting it. It was especially funny when Cas did it whilst facing away from them, like he’d done just now.

“Relax Sammy, Cas has that effect on everyone.”

An ‘O’ of realisation formed on Sam’s face. _So this was Castiel._ Sam’s hazel eyes searched, taking in the man that had had his brother in such a tizz for the last couple of weeks. _I totally get it!_

_'Cas' huh?_ Sam mouthed at Dean, eyebrow raised at the nickname.

 

 _What!_  Dean answered back with a silent shrug.  _'Castiel's kind of a mouthful._

 

Both brows nearly flew up into his hairline as Sam suppressed a snort. Dean rolled his eyes.

 

_Not like that, get your mind out of the gutter!_

 

_Yeah, suppose that is more of a third date kind of thing._

 

Their conversation may have been silent, but Dean suspected Cas might notice him beating the crap out of Sam and start asking questions. So he settled for an evil stare at his shit-eating brother, making a mental note to put Nair in his shampoo bottle first chance he got.

 

Cas smirked at Dean’s ribbing. He seemed to sense the nervousness, or surprise, or at the very least expected the uncertainty as to how best to precede coming from Sam, so he held out a friendly hand in his assumed general direction.

“It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Castiel, as you may have gathered.” They shook, Cas feeling the nerves bleeding out of the boy. “May I?” Cas asked, fingers wiggling. Sam nodded “Yes of course” he corrected himself a moment later, though sounding unsure as to exactly what he was agreeing to.

As Cas began his exploration of Sam’s face, Dean wondered if the look on his younger brother’s face was the same as his when Cas first did it on him; shocked, confused, trying to follow what Cas was doing whilst trying to stay still at the same time. It led to some hilariously cross eyed looks that nearly had Dean howling on the floor.

“He’s handsome.” Cas proclaimed when he finished. “But not nearly as handsome as you.”

Dean, although surprised by Cas’s unexpected remark, felt his heart grow three sizes in his chest “Thanks Cas.”

“I was talking to Alfie.” Now it was Sam’s turn to laugh. Hard.

“I like him already” Sam smirked, clapping a friendly had to Cas’s shoulder. _Oh great. Two peas in a fucking pod._

But in amongst all the laughter and bonding at Dean’s expense, he spotted a potential problem; a problem involving Sam’s hand twitching out of the corner of his eye, fingers stretching then balling as if straining to resist. Dean looked down, groaning inwardly at what he saw; Alfie would choose to park his furry behind next to the world’s biggest dog lover, a love only exacerbated by the continued misfortune of never being able to own one.

“Hey Cas?” Sam started before Dean had time to shake his head “Is it ok if… I mean, I know you’re not supposed to but… can I pet your dog? Please?”

“Well, you’re not really supposed to distract a guide dog from his duties, but –“ and there he went with his super-heightened intuition power again. Not that the smell of pleading was hard to ignore – Dean couldn’t tell whose puppy eyes were bigger, Sam’s or the dogs – but one sniff and Cas’s heart melted “- as I’m sure Dean knows his own apartment well enough, it couldn’t hurt for Alfie to take a short petting break.”

No sooner than those magical words had been uttered the pair seemed to dive for each other. Seriously, it was ridiculous how happy such a simple act made both man and dog. If it wasn’t for the fact his brother was a 6 foot giant pre-law student Dean would swear he was five years old again, hands buried deep in golden fur as they rolled around on the floor. Alfie was just as bad – his tail was wagging so hard it almost snapped clean off his body. Dean shook his head. _Goofballs, the pair of them._

“There, now that they’re both preoccupied, we can do what we came here to do.” Suddenly Cas flourished his arm, as if he were about to pull out a rabbit from the baggy lime sleeve – Dean was starting to suspect that creative clothing choices were not a one off. Out came a white stick, which he extended with an elegant flick of the wrist.

“Aren’t magicians supposed to show what’s up their sleeves before pulling stuff out of them?” Dean asked, bemused. “Seriously, why is that shoved up your arm?”

“You never know when some nefarious individual is going to corner me in an alley.” Cas replied, the seriousness of his answer somewhat dampened by the wicked grin on his face. “Always be prepared!” He finished with a three fingered salute.

_Yeah, cos you were a Boy Scout..._

Cas put down his arm, crooking it at the elbow for Dean to link up. His stick trailed the floor with pent up excitement. “Take me to your work. ’Show me the money!’”

“That’s a Jerry Maguire reference if I’m not mistaken.” Came a rough gruff voice from out of nowhere. Dean jumped as the door slammed, not realising anyone else was home. Dumping his bags Benny strode across the floor, beaming, hand extended towards Castiel.

“So this must be the famous Cas. Nice ta meet you brother, I’m –“

“Benjamin Lafitte!” Both Dean and Benny shared a look of surprise as Cas beat him to the punch. Deans surprise turned to shock as Cas turned an accusatory stare towards Dean. “You didn’t tell me ‘roommate Benny’ was Benjamin Lafitte, metalwork artist extraordinaire!”

“Well, I wouldn’t call my work extraordinary, but it’s nice to meet a fan.” Benny smiled, the hint of a blush creeping across his cheeks as Cas pumped his hand in greeting.

“On the contrary, sir, you’re one of the few metalworkers who allow their art to be touched in public galleries. And for that, I thank you.”

Benny bent his head in gratitude, not sure how to respond to such a compliment, but Cas didn’t need him to. Instead of letting the silence wallow he re-extended his arm, motioning for Dean to take it.

“How on earth did you know it was Benny?” Dean whispered as they walked, even though Benny had headed off into the kitchen. Dean could see that big old lummox grinning from here.

“Between the accent and the smell of burn metal shavings, he, much like you, is kind of hard to miss.”

As they wandered on over to Dean’s half of the flat, he could feel the nerves clawing at his insides. This was the first time anyone outside the flat had seen his new work, and honestly he wasn’t sure if they were good enough for anyone outside to ever see them. But there was no backing out of it now; Cas could smell the paint, and was nearly pulling Dean in his excitement to see them.

But that was the problem, Dean realised like an anvil to the head as he stopped in front of them, the canvases leaning up against the white painted wall. His work wasn’t like Benny’s work, there was no structures or materials for Cas to feel, to run his fingers along - How the hell was Cas going to ‘see’ his paintings?

As if feeling Dean’s despair, Cas disengaged from where their elbows linked and wandered forward, carefully, step following precarious step, arms swinging about the air as if to feel the way, stopping only when fingertips brushed the bumpy canvas edge.

“May I?” He motioned.

“Yeah, of course.” Cas had come too far to stop him now.

Fascinated, Dean watched as Cas moved squarely in front of the painting; much like what he’d witnessed with Sam, Cas began to run his fingertips across the canvas. Like following a tracing, his fingers ran across its length, arching, swirled, spiralling as it followed the pattern of the paint, mapping out where Dean had twirled his brush, splodged it, strayed it, even scribbled a bit where his frustration got the better of him. Cas may not have been able to make out exactly what Dean had created –the Brooklyn Bridge at night in the reflection of the East River – but it was like he could make out the emotions Dean had been feeling when he created it.

And that was more intimate than Dean had been expecting.

“It’s no Picasso or anything.” He shrugged, trying to play off the sudden tingles he was feeling in his stomach.

“Nonsense, it feels beautiful, Dean. Best painting I’ve ever felt. Picasso’s got nothing on you.”

Dean quirked an eyebrow, snorting lightly. “Yeah, but you’ve never felt up Picasso’s work.”

With a turn of the head Cas cocked one eyebrow over the ridge of his sunglasses. Dean smiled – _he’s joking right?_ The eyebrow didn’t go down. _Right?!_

“You didn’t...?” Dean asked in whispered awe. Even Benny forgot that he was not supposed to be eavesdropping, edging closer, dishcloth left forgotten in his hands. They both stood before Cas, jaws dropped, waiting on tenterhooks.

“Of course I didn’t!” Cas answered eventually, chuckling at the sighs he’d generated from the artists – relief mixed with mild disappointment. “Although Gabe made a convincing argument to the curator. I probably would have got the chance to touch it if he hadn’t made sexual advances towards her.”

Benny laughed, punching Cas playfully in the shoulder before wandering back to the kitchen. Dean remained, slightly dumbfounded. _Just who was this brother of Cas’s?_

“Shit” Cas remarked suddenly, feeling the tackiness on his fingertips. Dean’s mind snapped back to reality – _since when did Cas swear?_ “I think you need to install a ‘wet paint’ sign near here.”

Dean had been so caught up in watching Cas ‘see’ his painting, face wrinkled in concentration as fingers danced over the canvas, that he plain forgot he’d been adding to the painting before picking him up this morning, and judging by the finger shaped, yellowy-white splodges now decorating the right side of the darkened water, it hadn’t properly dried yet.

“Here, let me get that for you.” Dean reached for a dry cloth.

“I’m sorry if I ruined –“

“I didn’t really like that painting anyway.” Dean assured a worried Cas, smiling as he reached for his hand.

“But –“

“How’d you get it on your face?” Dean laughed, trying to both relax the worry in Cas’s voice and aim for the smear that had transferred to Cas’s cheek. He must have tried to push up his glasses at some point, because the smear ran from the apples to the rim – yellow fingerprints now patterned into the bright blue of his sunglasses. Dean could feel the warmth of Cas’s skin beneath his hand as he held it against Cas’s cheek, steadying him as he worked to wipe the paint off. The world grew quiet as he edged closer, hearing nothing but the gentle sound of Cas’s breath. His thumb brushing against the skin, barely noticing that the paint had already come off.

Within the space of a breath Cas leaned forward, as if in slow motion and yet all at once, swinging up on his toes to meet Dean in a kiss. Caught unawares Dean wavered off balance, which resulted in their first kiss becoming something of a mishmash; all teeth on lips and the bumping of noses, Dean’s thumb caught between their cheeks from where it had still been wiping paint. It ended just as suddenly as it began, Cas falling back down to normal height and face scrunched in knowing disaster.

“Sorry, that was – intended to be spontaneously romantic.” He mumbled, burying his face into the fabric of Dean’s chest, letting the soft flannel cover his spreading embarrassment. “My apologies if I misread the situation.”

Dean chuckled at the ridiculousness of what just happened, before chucking his finger under Cas’s chin.

“I’m getting real good at directions if you want to try that again?”

The quirk of a smile may have said _assbutt_ , but the lick of his lips said _yes please_.

Gently, Dean pulled Castiel up, letting his lips linger only for a second before Dean placed them on his. Warm but chapped, they moved softly against his own, as if daring to hope that this was actually, really happening. Dean moved his finger from under Cas’s chin, brushing his shoulder as they went to cup his head, holding him close, blunt fingers running through dark brown hair. Cas gasped, smiling against his mouth, winding his fingers through Dean’s belt loops, anchoring him into place. The sound of Cas’s racing heart beating against Dean’s own was the only sound that could be heard in their little corner of the apartment. Well, that and the shout of his less than subtle roommate.

“Hey Sam! You owe me fifty bucks!”


	6. Chapter 6

It was pretty much assured that Cas was staying for the evening, between the new development between him and Dean and the massive quantity of beef brisket and fixin’s Benny had made for dinner, but Dean was determined that nothing was going further than maybe some more kissing. Not while people were in the apartment anyway – Cas was a good (ok, great) kisser and all, but Dean wasn’t much a fan of PDA. Especially not in front of his smarmy little brother, who looked far too pleased for a guy who just lost fifty bucks.

But Cas, it turned out, was a pretty handsy guy. Not that this was exactly news to Dean, but he still choked on his food more than once as lithe fingers found his thigh under the table, then inching higher, tracing the length in teasing circles before palming at the hardness he’d created. Half shocked half turned on, he tried his best to pretend that his moaning sighs were aimed at Benny’s cooking, but the poker faced fucker on his right was not making it easy.  However, once Sam left after dinner, and Benny excused himself too... well, Dean had some catching up to do.

They both toppled as Dean backed Cas into his bed, landing with a _foof_ on the memory foam. Dean kissed him deep, tongues swirling, legs tangled as they dangled over the side of the bed as he leant on top of him. The soft little moans coming from Cas had Dean growing harder in his jeans, not helped by Cas moving his thigh against it. Judging by the smirk, he knew exactly what he was doing. _Well two can play at that game._ Dean pulled his hands out of the tangle of Cas’s hair, letting them roam over Cas’s throat, moving down over the soft material of Cas’s jumper, playing with the hem end before teasingly sliding them up underneath. Dean’s progress with Cas’s jumper was halted, however, as a sharp growl came from around his left ankle. He twisted, looking down at the end of the bed, stunned at how the normally placid Alfie was snarling at him, ears flat back, eyes dangerously dark and trained straight at Dean’s ass.

“Errrr Cas? Why does Alfie look like he’s about to rip me a new one?”

Cas propped himself up on one elbow, listening out for Alfie’s glowering growl. “Oh that? He probably thinks you’re trying to attack me.”

Dean was slightly worried at Cas taking it so calmly, but then again he wasn’t the one who would have a dog attached to his balls at any moment. “Any chance you could call him off?!”

Cas smirked before holding a palm out flat towards his faithful companion. “Down boy.” He commanded, and Alfie stopped, became the calm, peaceful dog Dean knew him to be, and wandered off to parts unknown. Before Dean had time to question how, what, and how again, Cas had grabbed him by the front of his tshirt.

“Now where were we?”

Dean finally, finally managed to wrestle the baggy-ass jumper off over Cas’s head, flinging it somewhere behind him, and holy crap did he like what he saw. Cas clearly worked out; not enough to give him those bulging, almost steroid infused looking muscles, but enough to look sculpted, as if from tanned marble. His eyes raked the strong plains of his torso, muscles shifting in his shoulders, strong biceps clenching as he balanced on the bed. The trail of soft, dark hair trailing down his stomach, dipping underneath the band of his jeans... Was it possible to feel aroused and overshadowed at the same time?

Dean’s fingers lingered at the edges of his black t-shirt as he drank in the glorious sight, mentally cursing his own physique; the last couple of years had been stressful to say the least, and stress led to stress drinking, which over time had led to a less than sexy pooch developing on his belly. Nothing noticeable to anyone but Dean, but it was a sore reminder that he wasn’t 19 anymore, and didn’t have Benny’s excuse of lifting heavy metal day in and day out. He tugged self-consciously at the hem; Dean’s pants may be coming off, but the t-shirt was staying on.

Dean leant down, arms on either side of Cas’s head, kissing, nibbling, biting his way down Cas’s jaw as he worked on removing Cas’s belt. Cas, for some reason, stiffened at the jingle of his belt buckle. Dean stopped, lifting himself up to look down at his partner. _What is it? What’s wrong? Did he not want to do this anymore?_

“Cas? Are you oka-“

But then with a strength, a dexterity Dean didn’t know Cas possessed, Cas flipped them, Dean not realising what had happened till his back hit the pillows.

“Cas wait, what are you -?”

“I want to be on top.” Cas commanded, voice low and righteous, all deep and dark that Dean felt all the way to his toes. Now it wasn’t to say that Dean didn’t like being a bottom; in fact he loved it when it was done right. But too many times he’d been with a selfish top more interested in satisfying himself than both of them, so since then he had stuck to topping. But by then Cas was already kissing him, deep and hard, and Dean was too caught up in the hardness pressing down into his thigh to complain.

Besides, the manhandling was all kinds of hot.

Deft fingers quickly removed Dean’s belt as Dean fumbled at Cas’s trousers, Dean getting them down to Cas’s knees before Cas finished by kicking them off, neither wanting to break the kissing. Dean lifted his pelvis for Cas to remove his own jeans, and the motion caused their cocks to brush against each other through the thin material of their underwear. They stopped, revelling in the motion, before Cas bent to brush them again.

“Ahh, Cas” Dean hissed, fully hard, the sensation causing his skin to tingle.

Motivated by the wonderful gasps he was creating, Cas plucked at Dean’s top, hands reaching under the fabric to work it up his torso. Dean went to pull it back down, face beginning to flush with embarrassment, but Cas batted his hands away, all but ripping it up off his head. Now freed from its cotton restraints, Cas licked his way down Dean’s chest, hands searching out for his nipples, caressing the long breadth of his body, wandering downwards till they reached the v in his hips. It felt so good Dean forgot to care about his less than hardcore stomach. Cas clearly didn’t seem to mind it.

Hands stroked the delicate skin of Dean’s thigh as Cas dipped his head down, nuzzling at the wet spot, the hardness in Dean’s pants. Dean bucked as his warm mouth sucked, licked against his dick, straining to be free and feel skin on skin. Cas, despite all previous proof, was not a teaser when it came to the bedroom; long fingers pulled down the waistband of Dean’s pants, freeing his cock, before bringing his tongue to its swollen head.

Dean gasped, moaning at the contact, the wet tongue swirling round the head before Cas wrapped his mouth around it, taking it all in slowly, oh so slowly, until his nose reached the thick hair at the base. Dean grappled at the bed sheets, hands not knowing where to touch, unable to buck as Cas held down his hips, bobbing up and down the long length of his shaft. Dean’s legs fell open as he whispered “More.” More greedily and dirtily than he ever imagined he could.

Cas couldn’t resist the sounds coming from beneath him. Shucking his own pants he moaned at the freedom of his own dick, hard and purple and leaking pre-come. He rolled the condom on quickly and slid into position, fingers feeling out the puckered edges of Dean’s hole, opening and closing in anticipation. With lube slicked fingers he gently pressed in, first to the knuckle, then the base, then two, scissoring him open as Dean writhed underneath his outstretched palm. Once he was ready, he lined up his dick, and pushed in. Dean’s eyes flew wide, mouthing dropping to an ‘O’ as Cas thrust in, deliciously filling him up.

Breathing heavy, they both stilled as Cas reached the hilt, letting Dean adjust to his thickness. There, in the gloom, Dean realised two things: one, that gorgeous mess of hair was almost sinful to look at, and two, Cas had somehow managed to retain his glasses. Dean had barely noticed them when Cas was beneath him. Hell, they even looked half sexy, lopsided and slightly steamed up. But when they were above him, and dangling precariously from the end of Cas’s nose... yeah, those landing smack on Dean’s face wasn’t going to be a mood killer _at all._

“Cas, buddy, we need to take your glasses off.”

Cas stopped, about to pull out, perplexed. “Dean, my cock is currently in your ass. I think we’re past the point of ‘buddy’, don’t you?”

But Dean was insistent, and Cas was too caught up in the moment to care. “Fine. But I’m keeping my eyes closed,” he nodded, allowing Dean to remove his glasses. Twisting to pop them on the bedside table, Dean turned back to see Cas, true to his word, had his lids squeezed so tight it almost looked painful. Concerned, he snaked a hand between them, palm resting against Cas’s cheek much like before, thumb trying to soothe out the deepened crinkles around them. Cas leant into it for a second, enjoying the last gentle sensation before finally, sharply, snapping his hips forward.

Dean cried out as Cas began to pound him, hips rising to meet every smack, heat pooling in his belly as the angle had Cas’s cock brushing against that little bundle of nerves. Dean’s grunts filled the air as Cas filled him up, spurring Cas on as he slammed into Dean’s greedy hole, a sinew of “yeah” and “right there” and “give it to me Cas” filtering between Dean’s lips.

“Cas... slow up a tou-hnng!” Dean gasped, fingers digging into Cas’s back; told hold off or hold on, Dean didn’t know. “Not gonna last long if – ahh – you keep it up –“

“Then don’t.” Cas growled in his ear, low and primal, skin smacking against skin as Dean’s balls tightened. “Come now, and I’ll f-fuck you slow later...”

Well, how could Dean say no to that?

Sweat dripped from Cas’s back as he thrust once, twice, spilling into Dean as “Dean” spilled from his mouth, so lost in the sensation that his eyes flew open. Breath caught in Dean’s throat as he saw them truly for the first time; beautifully blue, almost white like lightning in places, nothing but a faint rim around completely blown, dark, lust filled pupils that for a second he pretended could see straight into his soul. One look at those eyes and Dean was gone, coming undone with a cry not long after. Cas dropped, hot and heavily on top of Dean’s chest as they gasped, breathing raggedly, sweat and spilled come drying on their naked bodies as the air cooled around them.

And as they stilled, succumbing to the blissful arms of sated sleep, a sleepy Cajun voice sounded from the depths of the apartment.

“You two have the weirdest fucking dirty talk I’ve ever had the misfortune to hear.”

*~*~*

The next morning was slow, sleepy, and about as awkward as you could get, given that Benny was up with a bright “Rise and shine sleepyheads” smile plastered to his face.

Jody was right. That was too perky for this time in the morning.

Dean had extracted himself from under Cas that morning, lighter than air and a little sore in the ass as he went searching for his pants and some coffee, bumping into Benny in the kitchen. Apologies turned into the promise of breakfast (and never letting Benny hear that again) which is how Cas found them an hour later, Alfie in hand, silent and scoffing eggs around the breakfast table.

“My apologies for last night Benjamin, I’ve been informed in the past that I can be quite... vocal during carnal activities.”

 _Vocal’s one word for it._ If Cas didn’t look so sincere in his apology, Dean would swear he was being TMI on purpose. He focused on his breakfast, trying for all the world to pretend he wasn’t blushing. Or even in the room at all.

“Please, only my pa called me Benjamin.” Benny remarked, though Dean couldn’t help spot the sly glance in his direction; he didn’t like that glance one bit. Nor the smile that was twitching at the corners of his moustache. “And trust me Hot Stuff, it wasn’t half as bad as the Japanese porno Dean thinks I can’t hear through his headphones every other night!”

The guffaw rumbled low in Benny’s chest at the sight of Dean’s face glowing red. “Here Cas, if you put your hand on Dean’s ears right now, you can feel how red they’ve gotten!” Dean twisted, lowering Cas’s impending outstretched hand, before sending his best death stare Benny’s way.

“Excuse me, I’ve got a roommate to kill.”

*~*~*

Their rough and tumble across the open floor was a hard fought battle, only ending once they’d managed to roll into Benny’s sculpture (but not before Cas, when hearing all the grunting and smacking of skin on skin, had asked whether Dean and Benny were the ones having sex now) which, luckily for Benny’s future career, only served to damage Dean’s side. But Benny did decide to leave the boys to it after that – apparently his bump to the head had reminded him of some supplies he needed to pick up.

They would have followed suit, given that Cas had a list as long as his arm of sights he needed to visit in the city, but the downpour of rain outside told Dean that wasn’t going to happen. So as they flopped themselves down on the sofa, Alfie curled up around Cas’s feet, Cas suggested they might ‘procrastinate’ and watch some movies today.

“You know, so maybe next time I quote something to you, you may actually know what I’m talking about.” Cas smirked up at Dean. “Besides, I’ve been keeping score, and you’re losing quite badly.”

Dean turned, frowning “You’re keeping score? I didn’t know I was even playing!”

“I know, but you’re still losing 3 to nothing.”

Puzzled at Cas’s choice in entertainment, Dean nonetheless threw an arm around his shoulders, reaching out for the remote to scroll through their options. A question buzzed around his mind, and he wasn’t sure if he should ask.

“Just ask me.” Cas patted his arm.

“Huh?”

“If you have a question, just ask me, I’m not going to bite.”

“No, that’s Alfie’s job.” Alfie turned at the sound of his name. Cas reached out to stroke his head. Dean gulped, but fired away. “Doesn’t not being able to see kinda affect the point of watching movies?”

Cas hummed, thinking it over. “Quite the opposite, really. Dialogue and musical scores don’t require the use of eyes. Besides, I told you, I have a great imagination.” Son of a bitch actually winked at that before continuing. “Anyway I tend to watch things twice – once for the dialogue, then again with descriptive commentary. My brother Gabe, despite his bad scenic descriptive skills, gives the best movie audio commentary!”

“I bet he does…”

“Yes. Though it does mean I’m limited to what I can watch.” Cas sighed a little sadly “Gabe won’t watch anything that’s not a comedy, reality or a kids show, and my sister is more into French films and anything romantic.”

Dean sat there, mulling his predicament over. “Well, then what would you like to watch?”

Cas looked up, surprise filling his face, and for a second Dean’s heart broke – it was like this was the first time Cas had been asked what he’d like to watch.

“I’ve always wanted to watch a Clint Eastwood movie...” He answered a little breathlessly. Dean smiled; he knew exactly which one to start with.

“Well then hold onto your hat. I’m gonna introduce you to a little monkey called Clyde...”


	7. Chapter 7

As the weeks went by, Dean spent his time trying everything he could think of to help push his muse back onto his mental playing field, anything to spark something even close to a theme for a collection – sketching, abstract art (or at least his interpretation of it. Namely throwing paint at a canvas and seeing what would stick). He even flirted with the idea of trying his hand at metalworking until Benny shut that one down in flames, claiming that welding pylons together ‘wasn’t the same’ as helping his uncle repair a car that one time. Dean just reckoned he was being a priss and didn’t want him messing up his tools (so neatly organised Dean was tempted to ‘misplace’ a drill or screwdriver, just to watch the fireworks fly), but changed his mind the next day when he accidentally set fire to one of Sam’s textbooks. Nothing a well-placed boot couldn’t sort out, but the smouldering wreck now lived under the sofa – Dean really hoped ‘A Beginners Guide to Pre Law’ wasn’t going to be missed too much.

So when Cas and his crazy good intuition would inevitably call and ask to be escorted somewhere, Dean was more than happy to oblige, and not just for procrastination purposes either; he found himself increasingly fascinated with how Cas got through his day to day life.  From simple things such as how he crossed the road (“Did you know that there was a little button underneath traffic light signs that vibrates when the red man turns green?” “Yes Dean, I did. Now can you please shush, I’m trying to study for my Math exam.”) to what Alfie was actually trained to do.

And as he spent more time with Castiel, Dean learnt that he did not have to tread carefully around his boyfriend (because after the third time Benny caught them at it on the sofa, they kind of had to admit that’s what they were); after the fifth time correcting himself for using the word ‘see’, Cas took pity and told him that the word wasn’t offensive to him, in fact he used it all the time. Also, Cas was perfectly capable of doing everyday tasks without constant supervision, like cooking or making them coffee; all he asked was that Dean keep his stuff in roughly the same place - such as the coffee by the kettle, pots and pans in the left hand cupboard – and then he’d be just fine. Basically, Dean deduced, if Cas needed help he’d ask for it, and if Dean wasn’t sure whether something was ok or not then Cas was happy to answer. It was such a simple system that Dean wondered why he’d ever worried before.

If fact, the only time Cas majorly needed help (apart from getting Dean to describe their latest scenic discovery – most recently the Statue of Liberty, as Gabe’s disservice to the iconic structure couldn’t last much longer) was when Cas took them clothes shopping. A chore Dean usually avoided at all costs, but was eager to experience from Cas’s perspective. The more he learned, Dean thought, the less he was likely to screw up.

The blonde lady at the front door greeted ‘Mr Novak’ with a warm smile before taking his arm with practiced ease. With Alfie left in the safety of Dean’s hands she led him steadily around to the men’s section of the store, only stopping her inquiries as to what he was looking for today to point out oncoming obstacles. Dean watched as she led him towards the first rack of clothes, allowing him time to touch each individual item, describing colours and patterns to him as and when he asked...

“So, what do you think?”

Dean turned distractedly to stare at the sunglasses Cas was now trying on (his last pair had gotten somewhat... squished). His mouth dropped at the sight that greeted him, losing the ability to speak. They were lurid. They were garish. He was no Calvin Klein, but even Dean could tell they were completely and utterly fashion disaster material.

And they were totally up Cas’s street.

Dean couldn’t think of anything nice to say without hurting Cas’s feelings, so like the coward he was he stayed still, stayed silent, and hoped Cas would think he’d walked off somewhere. Cas’s cane cracking across his knee foiled that plan.

“I know you’re there!”

“Ow! How the hell’d you know?”

“’The dwarf breathes so loud I could have shot him in the dark’” Cas quipped, eyebrow raised. Rubbing the sore spot across his leg, the quote niggling something in the back of Dean’s brain.

“… Two Towers?”

Cas looked impressed. “Look at you! Three – one.” He smiled proudly before popping the glasses in his basket.

As they continued to make their way round the store Cas’s basket began to pile high, one lurid, garish and bad patterned item of clothing after the other, Dean wincing at every new addition. Dean couldn’t understand it, he really couldn’t – there were some genuinely nice items that the lady was showing him, and he’d nod, about to put it in the basket, but then he’d ask for the colour options and screw it all up again. And by the time they’d made it to the changing rooms and Cas was showing him the outfits he was trying on, he had to ask.

“Why Cas? Why do you insist on wearing such terrible clothes?”

Cas stopped, arms flopping to the sides of a fluffy lime number. “What do you mean?” He asked, quieter than usual. Dean paused, biting his lower lip, unsure whether to continue or not, but that head tilt usually signalled curiosity; at least it did whenever Dean talked about his work. And Cas had told him just to ask if he had questions. So with a nervous huff of laughter Dean decided to press on.

“You can clearly piece together an outfit, and you always ask someone to tell you the patterns and colours of clothes you like the feel of.” No response, save for a shift in Cas’s shoulders. “So why do you pick the most awful, eye blindingly bright colours of -”

“Because I’m fed up of being invisible!” Cas snapped, blowing Dean’s eyes wide with fear. In all the time he’d know Cas, he’s never heard his shout before. “Just because I can’t see everybody, that somehow allows everybody to pretend they can’t see me! Do you know what it’s like to be tripped, bumped into, spilled on and inevitably be ignored every single goddamn day?” His voice was hard, as if trying to hold back the tears Dean could see leaking from under his sunglasses. “I hate it.” He sniffed, turning away, not caring that he was wiping snot and salt water on the store clothing. “At least this way people have no excuse.”

“Who cares what people think?” Dean stuttered, rising, mind tripping over mouth as he tried to back pedal.

Cas’s voice broke. “I care.” He choked out

Dean had Cas in his arms before the man could splutter to a stop. He didn’t care that they were in the middle of a changing room, that the shop assistant was shooting them odd looks, that the sharp corner of sunglasses was digging into his skin as Cas buried his face into the crook of his neck. All he cared about, as angry sobs shook through his shoulders, was Cas, and how much he wished he could take back what he said. He was such an idiot, not thinking that there might be a reason behind Cas’s choice in clothing. Tight fists twisted Dean’s shirt as he ran soothing hands down Cas’s back, holding him close and hoping he could convey just how very sorry he was. Pressing a kiss into Cas’s hairline as the sobbing drew to a hiccupped close, he pulled away, assessing the water damage.

“Why don’t you show me something else you picked out, eh?”

Cas shrugged forlornly. “You’ll hate it.”

“No I won’t, I promise.”

Cas clomped back into his little changing room, door closing with a bang. Dean hung his head low in his hands, slapping his forehead repeatedly as Alfie looked on. _You stupid idiot_ his furry face seemed to say. He wasn’t wrong.

But before he had time to beat himself up thoroughly Cas came back out, wearing black pants, a fitted white shirt and a black waistcoat that hugged him in all the right places. Dean’s eyes grew wide as he took in the sight of Cas rolling the sleeves up to his elbows, before holding his arms out.

“Better?”

Dean almost, very nearly said yes, but something held him back. Reaching past Cas into the changing room he grabbed a tie off the wall – a silky blue number that Cas had liked the feel of, one that reminded Dean of the glimpse he’d gotten of Cas’s eyes. Gently placing it around the collar Dean tied it in place, smoothing it down the front of Cas’s shirt once he was done.

“Better.” He answered, leaning down to capture Cas in a chaste kiss.

*~*~*

New York had always been one of the noisiest cities in the world – the City that Never Sleeps certainly had a reputation to uphold. Even its quietest, suburbanite streets were filled to the brim with car honks and people shouting. But not even the most tourist filled section of Broadway could rival the volume that was Cas’s silence as they walked back to... wherever they were going. Dean was too afraid to ask. He didn’t think it was possible for anyone to look that angry in a cat eared hoodie, but somehow Cas managed to pull it off.

 To be brutally honest, Dean had kind of hoped Cas’s breakdown in the changing room would have melted his icy front of sarcasm and self-deprecating humour just a little bit. Or made even the tiniest crack. But the wall was back up and stronger than ever as they made the short walk home, to the point where Dean was surprised passers-by didn’t ricochet right off it.

Things hadn’t been this frosty between them since... well, since they first met. And even that had some spilled hot coffee to take the chill off.

In fact Dean, who thought he had a good grasp on being able to read Cas, was having trouble working out whether the pinched look on his face was one of anger or concentration, given that he’d chosen to go back to Alfie’s reins over Dean’s offer of a guiding arm.

_Congrats Dean. Really screwed that one up big time._

Dean was so far in his own head, trying to work out apologies, and what ifs, and how can I make it rights that he didn’t even realise Cas had stopped several feet back; only noticing when Alfie’s swishy tail had stopped bashing him in the leg.

“This is me.” Cas said tersely as Dean strode back towards him, cocking his head to the building on his left. Dean double took, surprised to see an old bookshop, more dust than books on the inside. He almost asked if Cas had make a mistake until he saw the book shaped key in his hand.

“Awesome.” He responded, hands buried deep in leather pockets. “Glad I got you home safely.”

The silence grew awkward as it stretched out between them, neither wanting to make the first move. The keys jingled as Cas fiddled with them. Dean stared down at his own shuffling feet. Why did he get the feeling that if he walked away now, that would be it for the two of them?

“Cas. I-“

“Wouldyouliketocomein?”

Dean blinked, processing.

“’Scuse me?”

Cas sighed, but relaxed his vice-like grip on Alfie’s handle.

“Would. You like. To come in?”

Dean looked between his boyfriend (if he could still call him that) and the shop front, noticing that Cas was shuffling and looking pretty uncomfortable. Dean twigged that this was the first time Cas was showing him his home, his actual, real life home (as opposed to the coffee shop Dean always secretly thought Cas lived in – why else would he insist on meeting Dean there all the time?) and how nervous he must be in doing so. Almost as nervous as Dean had been when showing Cas his paintings, no doubt. So of course Dean said “Yes.” _A thousand times yes._

Cas ran his thumb along the book leaf edge of the key (a big brass number Dean could now see - like something straight out of Hogwarts) before reaching for the door, tracing the knobs around the handle before guiding the key into the slot. Five seconds and they were in, a swirl of dust swinging open in their wake. Rough wood hit his foot as Cas toed off his shoes, Alfie nudging them into their place by the door.

 

The house he had grown up in had been very neat, orderly and tidy; Cas assumed it was his mothers way of making things easier for him, which was kind and all but the overzealous way his mother cleaned everything had stripped every original scent from the house, leaving nothing but the sting of bleach and sharp lemon assaulting his heightened olfactory senses day in and day out. It was in the musk of libraries, the gentle creak of leather and quiet leaves of paper that Castiel had found his true home, his sanctuary when the bullies got too rough or when the world became too much. He recognised the scent the very second he stepped foot in this book shop; buried beneath layers of dust and destitution, but still there, clinging to the walls and calling him home. And he knew he had to have it.

 

He took a second in the doorway to let the scent seep into his pores, sending him back to that early August evening. But something new was in the mix today; new, yet strangely recognisable. Cas sniffed. Patchouli, if he wasn't mistaken. Patchouli and chocolate cake.

 

"Anna, is that you?"

 

Dean nearly jumped out of his skin as a flame haired lady rounded one of the book stacks.

 

“There you are Castiel, I’ve been worried about you!” She cried, flinging her arms around his neck and hugging him close, knocking his glasses askew in the process. Cas groaned, winded, but gently patted her on the back. Dean stepped back to give them some space.

 

“Where have you been?” She lightly scolded, pulling back and setting his glasses straight. “I came over the past few days to check on you-“

 

“Anna –“

 

“-and you haven’t been here, and I was getting worried –“

 

“-Anna-“

 

“-And I keep trying to tidy this place up, there’s paperwork everywhere, but when I come back it’s always messy again –“

 

Cas practically had to clamp a hand over her mouth to cease the stream of babble. “Anna, I love you, but please stop talking at me like I’m one of your kindergarteners.”

Anna stopped, catching her breath. She had the grace to look a little bit sheepish. “Sorry Castiel. You know I don’t mean to, it’s just… you’re my baby brother and I worry about you.”

“I am a fully functioning adult just like you and Gabe.” Cas responded sternly, as if this wasn’t the first time he’d had to tell her this. “I have successfully survived thus far on my own. Please allow me the courtesy of continuing to do so.”

Anna sighed, but nodded in defeat, letting her hand stroke his cheek one last time. She did a double take as she finally turned to acknowledge Dean’s presence, a sunny smile breaking out across her face. Kind of like a mom’s when their child brings home a friend for the first time.

“Hello, you must be...?”

“Dean,” Cas leapt in before Dean had a chance to respond, “This is Dean.” With that he turned, cane swishing, and wandered off into the bookshelves. Anna flipped her head between them, her hair glinting like sparks of fire in the light.

“Dean? As in Coffee Jer- _Dean_?!” She corrected herself last minute, fingers pressed to her lips at the almost slip. A hand shot out quickly, rushing to restore her manners. ”It’s nice to meet you, I’m -”

“-Anna, in the flesh at last.” Dean finished kindly, extending his hand to cover hers.

“Sorry,” She smiled apologetically, leaning in close to hush, “if it helps, he hasn’t called you that name in at least a month.” Dean laughed, and Anna relaxed, happy that she hadn’t put her foot in it too badly. Dean took a second to look past her to Cas – who was in the back, feeling his way through a box of books – before whispering, bringing the conversation to just between the two of them, “He’s right you know.”

Anna squinted, unsure of where this was going. _Yep, she was Cas’s sister all right._ “About the ‘Coffee Jerk’ thing?”

“About the ‘fully functioning adult’ thing.”

“I know he is.” She sighed, looking over at her little brother with fondness. “But family help one another, and all Cas sees it as is pity or charity. But it’s not; Gabe always calls me for help –“

“-yeah, help to bail him out of jail-“

“That too” Anna retorted at Cas, throwing a snarky eyebrow in for good measure - the little dork and his Vulcan hearing must have snuck back over when they weren’t paying attention. The sibling bond must have been strong between them, because despite not being able to see it, Cas clearly knew it was there, if his returning roguish grin was anything to go by.

It had only been a few hours, but Dean had missed that smile.

“But I call him for help too. It’s a two-way street. It’s what families do.” She aimed that last sentence directly towards Cas, and Dean got the sense this was another ongoing family dispute. But Cas, the stubborn assbutt, had his head back in a box, doing a pretty good impression of being deaf as well as blind. Anna sighed exasperatedly, clearly knowing that she wasn’t going to win this argument.

“Anyway, it was nice to meet you Dean,” Anna turned, sunny smile plastered back onto her face. She shook his hand fondly before heading for the door. “I’ll be back tomorrow Castiel, okay?”

“Can’t promise I’ll be here.” Cas muttered in response, but Anna heard it. Casting one last look at her little brother she left, the door clicking behind her. Funnily enough, he righted himself at the sound.

“Well, that was my sister.” He shrugged, emotionless scowl shoved back into place.

“She seems nice.”

“She is,” he nodding, face turned towards the dying tinkles of the bell above the door. “I really need to take her key away from her though.”

“Why?”

“Because she won’t leave me be. Between her trying to ‘help’ and Gabe owning the place, they both think they can come barging in whenever they want.” Despite his anger towards Dean, he could clearly still sense the questioning look being thrown his way. “And when they barge in, they move things.” Cas tagged on, cane tapping the wooden floor in frustration. Dean’s mouth fell into an ‘O’ of realisation. “That’s why it’s taking me so long to set this place up. It’s hard enough to read the bills or rental agreements, let alone find where they are.”

Dean didn’t know what to say, and in Cas’s mood probably nothing he gave up in help or support was going to be the right answer. But he still had to try.

“You have a beautiful shop, Cas.” Dean told him, hoping honesty wasn’t going to blow up in his face again. His feet scuffed at the dusty floor as he waited for a response. Any response. _Come on man, just say something!_

 “Really?” Cas looked up towards him; the head tilt was back, joined by a furrowed brow, as if he couldn’t decide if Dean was being genuine or just saying it to save face.

“Yeah, it’s gorgeous man! What are you looking to sell here?” Dean’s heart began to leap in hope as a tiny, tiny smile began to poke at the corners of Cas’s lips.

“I’m hoping to make it a book store again. But this time, for people with disabilities like me. So I could sell Braille books or audio books, books with larger print for those with partial sight. I can’t be the only person in this city who needs this type of facility.”

“That’s awesome Cas! And it’s a great little store to do it in too. Like, this is proper hard wood flooring – little dust, little varnish and it’ll clean right up, and won’t leave you cold in the winter. And –“ Dean moved across the floor, heading towards one of the bookshelves “- you’ve got so much space in here, you could do anything you want with it. Like, if you move this book shelf over into this alcove, you could make a little nook for people who want to sit and read, sit and listen to their books rather than just purchase. Then this wall -” he turned, really getting a feel for the place now that he was on a roll “- would be really opened up, you could get a tapestry or a mural up here for people to touch, help them move from one section to the other, and –“ he stopped, arms dropping, as he found himself in front of Cas “- and I’m sorry, I’m totally steam rolling over your ideas here.”

“No no, I like it. You’ve got some great ideas for the place. I never thought of a mural before.”

“And Cas, listen, I’m sorry I made you mad earlier –“

“I wasn’t mad.” Dean cocked an accusing eyebrow. “Ok, I was a little mad. But more at myself than at you.” Dean’s eyebrow lowered in confusion. “You’re going to make me explain it aren’t you?”

“Hell yeah I am!”

Cas sighed, summoning courage, before taking a step closer.

“I’m – I’m not used to having to explain why I do things to people. Either they’re my family and they already know, or they’ve been strangers who haven’t given a damn.” Cas’s voice dropped to a whisper, as if not believing what he was about to say. “I think you’re the first person in a very, very long time that wanted to know, that actually asked.”

“And that scared the crap out of you.”

Cas nodded. Dean smiled fondly at the man in front of him, before gently tilting his chin up with the crook of his finger.

“Well, it’s a good job I’m not just ‘people’ then, isn’t it?”


	8. Chapter 8

Turns out there was a little flat just off the side of the shop that Cas was actually living in, with just enough room for a king sized bed. They burst through the door, throwing clothes off as they went, and as Cas kicked it shut (with Alfie safely ensconced in his bed on the other side) Dean crowded him up against it, pinning him to the wood as he licked his way into his mouth. Their lips clashed, fighting for dominance, all teeth and tongues and biting at lips, Dean rolling his body up against Cas’s till they were both rock hard. Gasping hot and heavy, Cas clung to Dean’s back, legs circling Dean’s waist as Dean picked him off the floor. Cas ground his erection against Dean, and Dean, moaning into Cas’s mouth at the feel of it, carried him to the bed and lay him on top of it. He was about to position himself above Cas when, once again, Cas took his arms and attempted to flip them.

“Wait, Cas – CAS!” Dean rose, Cas lying still against the covers. “Cas, what’s wrong?”

“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. I’m absolutely fine.”

Dean looked down sceptically at the man between his arms. “Yeah, cos that pinched expression you got going on just _screams_ ‘Fuck me now Dean’.”

Cas’s lips tightened. _Stubborn jackass._

“Why do you keep trying to flip us?”

“I like to be on top.” Cas echoed.

“Yeah, I get that. But why?”

Cas shrugged. “Because I’m always on top?”

Dean squinted down at Cas. “That’s not it, is it?” So taking hold of his wrists, Dean gently but firmly pulled Cas back upright until they were both seated on the edge of the bed. As much as Dean wanted to dive them both under the covers, to ravish Cas within an inch of his life, they weren’t going anywhere till Dean had sorted this – whatever this was – out. He already thought he’d ruined his relationship with Cas today, he wasn’t about to do it again. “Talk to me.”

No answer.

“Cas, come on man, tell me. You know you can tell me anything.”

Cas took a deep breath, considering it, then propped himself back on his elbows. The nonchalance in his posture barely masked the radiating embarrassment.

“It’s not like I don’t like being the bottom. I do, I really do. It’s just –“ He licked his lips. “When I’m underneath anyone, I feel really vulnerable. Like I’m trapped. Maybe. It’s just – urgh!” Cas flopped flat back onto the bed, hands flying up to cover his face. Dean didn’t try to push, silently waiting, letting Cas wrestle his brain for the right words. “I already can’t see what’s going on, what my partner is doing; I have to rely on smell, on taste, on touch. And just the thought of all that going on when someone is above me, pinning me down... “ A hushed breath gasped out of him “I feel really boxed in. Claustrophobic, even. I have to fight for so much power in real life, that in the bedroom it’s – it’s just nice to be the one in control for once.”

Cas visibly sagged, as if he’d been holding that in for a long time, Deans hand running soothing circles into his bare thigh as he finished. An idea flashed in his mind.

“Well, how about this – you bottom, but while you sit on me? That way you still have the control, but I’ll still be in you. That sound like a plan?” Cas nodded, a little warily. “We can go as slow as you like, and if you find you still don’t like it, we’ll stop, ok? The second you say the word I’ll stop, I promise.”

Cas lay there, head tilted up towards the ceiling, worrying his bottom lip. Dean’s heart was pounding so hard in his ears that he almost missed the shy whisper of “I kind of like the sound of that.”

Dean smiled encouragingly as Cas nodded, determinedly sitting back up  – Cas may not have been able to see it but he knew it was there. “Ok, I can do that. But... if you wouldn’t mind...” The returning confidence shrank back slightly as Cas struggled with his request. Dean took his hand, placing a calming kiss into his knuckles.

“Fire away. I don’t bite.” He smiled, amused at the sudden role reversal. Even Cas let out a slow chuckle as he tried again.

“Could you just distract me while you do it? Just till we get into it, maybe... describe stuff to me?”

Dean simply nodded. “Course I can, Cas. And I know just the place to start.” He muttered, locked on the pink RayBan’s shining before him. He took Cas’s glasses off, placing them on the little bedside table. Cas closed his eyes instinctively.

“Open your eyes Cas. I can’t describe them if they’re closed.”

Cas shouldn’t have found Dean describing his eyes as hot as he did. Maybe it was the way he did it, the growl of his voice husking over every word as he lent into Cas’s body. Maybe it was the way each sentence was peppered with open mouthed kisses, sucked wet and hot into his neck, chest, stomach... _Oh fuck it_ , he didn’t care anymore. It was hot as fuck, and he was hard as hell.

Cas crowded into him, pushing Dean against the bed, every inch conceivable flush against his own and he still couldn’t get close enough. Straddling his thighs Cas bent double, capturing Dean’s mouth in a kiss so hungry all words ceased to exist. Hips rolled as hands went through hair, Cas pulling at the short strands as their cocks rubbed together. Dean snaked his hands around Cas’s back, cupping his ass as he rocked, squeezing the soft flesh just so that Cas moaned into his mouth, a finger drifting to rub light circles around his puckered hole.

Cas stilled as Dean penetrated his ring. Dean stopped, waiting for Cas. As much as his cock twitched, aching to be buried, he was not going to do anything Cas didn’t want to. So he waited, watching every micro expression that flitted over Cas’s face, sensing the argument warring in Cas’s mind.

Then, after what felt like forever, Cas nodded.

Dean tried again, this time fingers slicked with lube, gently pushing in up to the knuckle. Only once Cas was comfortable with one did Dean add the second, twisting and scissoring to open him up. They took it slow, but with every minute that passed Dean could see the tension easing from Cas’s shoulders, clenched hands loosening against Dean’s chest as he began to rock. When Dean finally had him loose enough to pull out, Cas whined at the loss.

“Don’t worry baby,” Dean chuckled, “I won’t make you wait long.”

Condom rolled on quickly Dean grabbed Cas’s hips, positioning them above his length. Slowly, achingly slowly, he helped Cas lower onto his cock, almost coming on the spot as his walls clamped down around him.

“Fuck, Cas, you’re so tight!” He gasped. Lower Cas went, Dean’s brain short circuiting at just how hot he looked, until finally he was completely seated. Dean watched in awe as Cas wiggled, adjusting, before remembering he was actually supposed to do something here.

He pulled out, slowly at first, and then with a snap shoved straight back in. Cas arched as the pleasure skated up his back, hands scrambling for purchase on Dean’s chest. His jaw slackened, pale eyes rolling into the back of his head as he ground down, riding Dean’s cock like he was born to do it, hard and fast, ass bouncing as he met thrust after thrust. Dean stared at the gorgeous creature above him, hair sticking to the back of his neck, growling, nothing but hot sweat and breathy little ‘fucks’ filling the air.

“You’re so fucking sexy riding my dick like that, Cas.”

Driving deeper and deeper with every thrust, Cas could feel the weight, the warmth of skin below him, dragging it closer with his fingertips. The taste, the smell of Dean circled around him, filling his head, enveloping, almost suffocating. He whimpered, getting lost in the darkness, senses muddled in the haze of want and heat and sex, hands moving from skin, hair, bed sheets, skin looking for purchase, a grip on reality, something to hold on to before he got lost forever...

It was as if Dean knew; hands found his, fingers intertwining, holding him down and pinning him in the world, grounding Cas in the moment. Then Dean sat up, chest rising to meet Cas’s, never losing their rhythm as their bodies entwined together; Dean’s hot, heavy breath in his ear, all gravel and molasses that sent tingles to his toes.

“Kiss me,” Cas whispered, and Dean was powerless to resist.

Cas gripped the small of his back as he buried his face in his neck, savouring the sweet, intoxicating smell that was whisky and sunshine and sex and safety and Dean. His small balloon tethered with sure, secure hands, Cas could let himself feel the fullness, the sharp smack of hips against his ass sending waves across his body. His body tensed, tightened, as felt himself reach his peak.

“Come for me Cas” Dean panted, teetering on the brink. Wanting to let go and hoping Cas would follow. “Come for me baby; I’ve got you.”

And over the edge they went, Cas spilling hot onto Dean’s stomach as Dean filled him up from the inside, the pleading stream of _DeanDeanDean_ falling from his lips as he came. Dean caught him as he tipped forward onto his chest, carding at his matted hair.

“I’ve got you Cas, I’ve got you.”

*~*~*

“So what is the craziest thing you’ve ever done?” Dean asked, basking in the light of their post coital glow, arm slung lazily over the dark haired man’s shoulders. “I mean, besides trying to throw yourself out of my car.” Fingers trailed lightly over his skin, goose pimples following in their wake as Cas thought deep. Silence answered at first, soon followed by chuckles vibrating up his arm. Almost cackling, even. Dean turned a questioning look Castiel’s way, only to be met by a mischievous grin.

“What is it?” Cas’s laughter was infectious.

“Gabe got pulled over for speeding this one time. I convinced him to switch places with me before the officer got to the window –“

“-not that Gabe needed much ‘convincing’ I’ll bet?”

The crinkles around Cas’s eyes deepened as he turned to stare up around Dean’s forehead.

“It’s like you know him or something. Anyway, so the officer knocks on the window and asks me if I know how fast I was going. And as I took off my glasses I said ‘I’m sorry sir, I didn’t see the speed limit!’”

Dean howled, throwing his head back into the pillows. Big belly laughs rolled from his stomach as he struggled for breath, the sound rippling through the air around them.

“I never heard someone splutter so hard, I thought I’d given the man a heart attack,” Cas continued between Dean’s giggles, looking ever so pleased with himself. “I wish I could have seen my parents faces when they picked us up from the station.” He reached out a hand, Dean taking it with practiced ease and guiding it towards his face. “I get the feeling it wasn’t the same as yours.”

Dean closed his eyes, letting the delicate digits trace his cheeks, the crows of his eyes, the upward curve of his lips, chuckles drifting to a stop.

“Probably not,” Dean whispered back, planting a gentle kiss on Cas’s fingertips. They lay there, basking in the memory before Cas piped up.

“What’s the craziest thing you’ve done?”

“… You?”

“Oh haha, very funny, Dean!” Cas rolled his eyes, his body following as he rocked himself over the blond, pulling a pillow as he went and proceeded to beat his partner with it. Dean tried to save himself from the duck down attack, but being trapped between Cas’s muscular thighs meant his escape routes were cut off at every turn. It also meant Cas knew exactly where he was, and with every smile that followed each successful _thwap_ Dean suspected that was the plan all along.

The kisses, when Dean eventually Uncle’d out, were totally worth it though.

“Seriously, though. Tell me.”

“Moving to New York. Becoming an artist. Making it even after my dad cut me off. ’No son of mine is growing up to be an artist’” Dean mimicked with a dark growl that Cas could feel deep down in his chest. The sharp edge to the words caused Dean’s skin to shake beneath Cas’s soothing hand, not stopping till Dean took a shuddering breath, bringing him back into reality. He tightened an arm around Cas’s shoulders, grounding himself in safer waters.

“Dean?”

“Hmm?”

“You know he can’t hurt you anymore.”

“I know that,” Dean whispered into the dark. Despite the distance, he still sounded unsafe. Unsure.

“Besides, even if he tried, he’d have to go through me first.” Cas reached out, grabbing for his stick off the bedside locker. On his third attempt he held it aloft, like it was freaking Excalibur. “My blade shall taste blood tonight!”

Well that broke Dean out of his reverie. Laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, he caught Cas up into a hug, rolling about the bed till the stick lay useless on the floor, till Cas lay panting across Dean’s chest. Dean swept aside a piece of sweaty hair.

“You’re a fucking dork.”

“I’m your fucking dork.”


	9. Chapter 9

Cas and Dean spent all their time together – Dean would go help out in Cas’s shop, where Cas had finally decided to hire someone to do the paperwork (a lovely young lady called Hannah, all brown curls, shy but very enthusiastic) either by stacking boxes or sorting out books according to Cas’s strict instructions. When he inevitably went off script and Cas relegated him to dusting duty, he would pull out his sketchbook, doodling hundreds of shadings, sketches and outlines of Cas – Cas’s nose, Cas’s hands, Cas’s arse when he chose to bend down in those snug fitted jeans – and when they were done for the day Dean would take Cas to a new part of town, where Dean would spend hours describing the wondrous sites to him.

But as much fun as they were having, and no matter how much his friends enjoyed seeing Dean happy, there was the little problem of Dean and Benny’s impending gallery opening. Because as much as Dean was starting to find joy in his work again, a sketchbook full of Cas doodles was not going to pay the rent (although the ass-in-jeans one could probably fetch a couple of dollars). And the longer it went on, the less finished his paintings became, Benny’s jokes about ‘nicking his space’ became more real when the tape measures came out. Even Sam piped up about it, and he was too busy cramming for his exams to even notice when to eat nowadays. Then Jody’s lectures came, the ones about ‘time management’ in particular becoming more warning with each phone call.

Until finally, just as spring was starting to summer, Dean caved, admitting just how incomplete his paintings were.

“What the h-e-double hockey sticks have you been doing all this time?!”

Dean took a sec to answer. _Since when did the Queen of Cuss use that kind of language?_

“H-e-double…” Then he twigged. “Donna’s such a good influence on you.”

“Yeah yeah, I guess the ‘no cussing in the house’ rule is starting to rub off on me.” She grumbled. Dean could only imagine in just how many ways Donna was being a ‘good influence’, smiling at the thought.

“Awwww, Jodes!”

“Shut your piehole Dean, I can still kick your ass from here.”

But despite her best warnings, Dean just kept ignoring the situation; kept deluding himself that he had plenty of time, that inspiration would strike at any moment. But it wasn’t until one evening, just over a month before the opening, as he and Cas were settling down on the grass in front of the Impala, that Cas cheerily, and without warning, piped up.

“So how are the paintings going?”

And Dean kind of fell apart.

“They’re not, ok? They’re not! I’ve had ages to come up with a plan, any plan on what to paint, what to base my collection on, and all I can come up with is... is fucking skylines!” He spat at the sky. “I’m sick of fucking skylines Cas! But apparently it’s all I can do! I’m a fucking one trick pony, and Sam is gonna suffer for it.” His throat closed at the thought, and he squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to let the tears spill out.

“So... not well then?” Cas asked apologetically, rubbing soothing circles into the back of Dean’s hand.

Dean laughed hollowly “Yeah, not well at all.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll come up with something. You are the most talented, beautiful, wonderfully clever man I have ever met, and I believe you will come up with something so inspiring it will bring the art world to its knees. You just have to find the thing you’re passionate about painting, then go from there.”

Dean laughed. “Cheers Cas. That’s quite a pedestal you have me up on there. Not sure I’m gonna make the cut.”

“In that case, I’m just going to have to take your mind off it then.” Cas decided, leaning in to kiss the nape of Dean’s neck.

“Cas, I ain’t having sex in a field. Not with chiggers waiting to bite my ass.”

“No, not like that.” Cas whispered, but he placed one more kiss on his neck for good measure before rolling back onto his back. “Describe them to me.”

“What?”

“The stars, describe them to me.”

Dean gulped, looking up at the sky above him with some trepidation. _Cheers Cas, pick a harder one next time._ The twinkles above him seemed to spin as his mind did, round and around, chasing, grasping for the right words, the perfect words, to help Cas see what he could see. Rivers, the city, those he could describe, but this?

Oh, Dean could paint the stars. Put a brush in his hand and he could create constellations, a thousand canvases of their infinite, celestial beauty in a thousand different ways, and he wouldn’t even scratch the surface of capturing their majesty. But to a blind man - to Cas - it all meant nothing. The gentle brush strokes, the perfect capture of their ethereal light – he could recreate Van Gogh’s _Starry Night_ in all its glory and Cas wouldn’t know the difference. Sure, brushstrokes feel different beneath fingertips, but otherwise? Cas wouldn’t be able to see them. And if he couldn’t even do that, how the hell was he supposed to tell him what they looked like? How do you capture the stars for a blind man?

 “Oh I don’t know Cas, you know I’m not great with words...”

“Come on Dean,” Cas implored, those glassy eyes wide and pleading behind his spectacles “Just do it better than Gabe, and I’ll be content; he said they looked like white paint splodges on a black table cloth.”

Silently cursing this mysterious brother under his breath (and adding that dreadful description to the list of ‘Reasons to Punch Gabe’, saved especially for the day they would hopefully meet) Dean laced his fingers between those lying beside him. Then, with careful direction, lifted Cas’s hand to the sky, moulding his fingers till he was pointing a little to his left.

“Ok, so this one,” Dean started, one eye closed in concentration; he knew Cas wouldn’t know any different, but it was important to Dean that he was aiming at the right constellation, “is the Big Dipper. It was always Sammy’s favourite to find, cos it literally looks like a big ass ladle.”

Cas’s head turned to face him. “You’re joking with me.”

“I’m not man, promise.”

“Ok, I trust you.” He shrugged, turning back.

Dean’s breath caught in his throat. He tried not to make a big deal out of the fact that the man actually trusted him with this, and he said it so casually too. It made Dean press on, determined to give Cas the best goddamn star gazing experience he ever had.

“So Big D is made up of seven stars, making out the shape of a ladle. We got the bowl bit here –“ Dean gripped Cas’s hand tighter, slowly moving his pointer finger across the sky, along the outline of the constellation like they were tracing it, “- then up, and this long bit here is the handle. The cool thing is, is that if you carry on in the direction the handle is pointing you eventually get to Polaris, the North Star.” Dean quickly turned to see how Cas was liking his description as their fingers landed on Polaris. His heart soared with pride to see his smile, wider and brighter than the moon itself.

And so Dean went on, continuing as the night went on until the stars eventually faded from the sky, finishing just as Cas felt the sun’s warmth peek from over the horizon. And there, in the silence, Cas spoke the only words that were left to say.

“Wow. Your descriptions are getting much better than Gabe’s.”

*~*~*

Buoyed by the inspiring words of Cas from the night before (and actually getting a proper night’s sleep for the first time in ages – turns out that Cas was really inspirational in that department too) Dean set to work the next day with a renewed determination. Paintbrush in hand and the empty canvas in front of him, he set to work with an extra spring in his step. A focus in his mind.

A focus that kept drifting to the man in the knitted bee jumper sprawled enticingly on the sofa behind him. The one with the long, dark hair he just wanted to run his paint splattered hands through. The one with the beautiful lips just made for kissing. The one who was concentrating hard on the Braille book in his lap (he had to study the products after all – how else would he be able to sell them?) and kept telling Dean off for distracting him.

“Dean, I’m reading, go back to your work.”

“Dean, trying to kiss me is not going to help your brother go to college.”

“Dean, if you get paint in my hair I’m going to hit you with this hardback!”

Until eventually, after the fifth time Dean cursed his own work and came stomping back over to Cas, Cas realised he’d have to do something drastic.

“Right, that settles it. I’m leaving.”

Dean spluttered, mind faltering on those last two words as the smile left his face. Mind racing, tears began to well in his eyes as he tried to work out what he did wrong, why Cas would do such a thing, how he could fix whatever he’d done –

“Not like that you fool. I mean I’m going home so you can get back to work! For some reason I seem to be a distraction to you...”

Relief had never tasted so sweet. Laughing at his own idiocy, he looked over to the man standing before him, all messy hair and gummy smile that shined brighter than the luridness of his jumper. It seemed silly, to have that bad a heart-stop reaction to the thought of the guy leaving him; they’d only been together a couple of months for god’s sake. But despite any logical reasoning his brain could come up with, his heart (lodged somewhere in the recesses of his throat) had a different plan. It fluttered wildly, beating out the message his voice refused to say: _I think I love you._

Dean ran a hand through his hair, before reaching for his coat.

“Look, I’ll walk you back –“

“Dean I lived in this city for about a year before I met you. I’m a big boy, I think I’ll be able to make it home on my own.”

“But-“

“But you’ve got a gallery collection to finish. Stay, I’ll be fine!”

Dean faltered, conceding when that stern little look Cas had refused to fade. So he looped his fingertips through Cas’s belt loops instead and gently rested his forehead against his.

“Call me when you get home, ok?”

“I promise” Cas smiled, leaning up on tiptoes to peck Deans lips. He got cheek instead, but Dean still smiled. “Now go do!” Cas commanded, playfully smacking Dean across the bum with his cane before returning it to the floor. Alfie barked a happy goodbye as they turned, walked through the door, and headed for home.


	10. Chapter 10

Cas had walked the route from Dean’s flat to his shop many, many times over the summer, and knew the route like the back of his hand – past the bridge, pit stop at Crowley’s for a coffee, then onwards till the turn off before hitting the main high street. Which is why he knew something was strange was going on when, on turning into 5th Avenue, Alfie suddenly veered to the right when they should have gone straight. The sudden movement caught Cas off guard, and it took him a moment to rein his daft dog back under control.

“What is it boy?” Cas asked curiously, petting the fluff on head. Alfie hadn’t done anything like this for a long time, not since Cas first got him. Well, except when some well meaning member of the public tried feeding him a doggy treat...

The hairs stood up on the back of his neck just as Alfie began to growl.

“Well well well, look who stumbled onto our turf,” came a foreboding voice to the left. Cas turned, following the sound, but stayed silent, ears pricking as the tap of footsteps resonated from the right.

“What’s a pretty boy like you doing in a trash pile like this?” it continued menacingly, echoing off the close knit walls around him. There was only one type of place Cas knew where sound did that – alleyways.

“Told you guys, told you I’d get him in here.” A third person spoke. It was a voice Cas recognised but had a little trouble placing. It sounded... European? He was a bit too preoccupied to focus on it as the two other men starting to push and shove him; just trying not to fall over as he felt the dark world spin around him. The arms, hands, muscles he was being bounced between felt big. And sounded even bigger.

“Look, I think you guys must be mistaken, and I don’t want my dog to have to hurt you. So if you’d let us be on our way –“

“Be on your way? Not a chance mate - Balthy here says you’ve got cash to spare. Now cough it up.”

Cas’s jaw dropped at what he just heard. No, they couldn’t mean –

“Balthazar?

“I’m sorry Castiel,” came the quiet reply. Cas turned on the spot to try to face him; the homeless man had the good grace to sound ashamed of what he was doing. Balthazar, on seeing the look of hurt and utter betrayal on Castiel’s face, stared resolutely at the ground, hands deep in his pockets as he tried to ignore the guilt growing in his stomach.

“But why?” Cas implored. “All I ever did was help you.”

“Because he knows what’s good for him, that’s why. Now hand it over!” And with that a strong set of knuckles drove themselves into Castiel’s face.

The burn of gravel on flesh seared into his forearms as he landed hard, the concrete doing nothing to cushion his fall. Rolling as gravity tipped him sideways, Cas brought his cane up in front of him with a swipe, hard plastic landing with a satisfying smack as his attacker bore down on top of him. But Cas didn’t even have a chance to relish in the small victory as two rough hands grabbed its centre, grappling for dominance, the man’s weight and strength fighting against Cas’s swift strikes. But the brawn also had a brain; anticipating Cas’s next move he dodged, ripping the cane from Cas’s hand as he went for a lunge, sending it skittering out of his reach.

Pain wracked his torso as he felt the punches working their way through his ribs, spark bleeding into spark until the pain engulfed him, mind, body and soul. Cas held his arms up, defending himself as best he could, but a second pair of hands began to land, and in the cacophony of agony and limbs he just couldn’t tell where they were coming from anymore. His brain screamed at him to shout, to cry out for help, but the wind was trapped in his lungs, and he was struggling just to breathe. The steel of a boot cap struck him in the gut and he retched, hot liquid snaking out between his lips. A smack. A snap. Cas saw stars for the first time in years...

A violent bark erupted, breaching the shouting and the breaking of bones as the snap of teeth in flesh ripping through the air. Cas took a greedy gasp as the knuckles left his side, bliss blooming in the momentary reprieve as screams that weren’t his filled the air.

“Get off me you fucking mutt!”

 _Leave him alone!_ Cas’s brain shrieked.

A crunch, a whelp, the thump of fur landed to Castiel’s left. _No. Nononono!_ He tried to reach out for Alfie, see if he was ok, but a boot stomped on his hand and he cried in submission. Eventually the pain dulled to a numbing, everlasting throb as the beating subsided in favour of hands rummaging in his pockets, followed by the sound of multiple footsteps against concrete echoing off into the distance, then... nothing. Over as quickly as it began

A small whimper came from his left, fur brushing up against his cheek. A gentle lick graced his face, trying to wipe off the hot, slow, sluggish blood he could feel dripping down his face.

“Good boy...” Cas managed to gasp out, the soft touch of fur his last comfort before succumbing to the pain, and passing out.

*~*~*

Dean’s phone rang just as he was washing up his brushes. It had been a little over two hours, but he was feeling pleased at the progress he was finally making. A warm rush of hope filled his body. _I could do this. I could actually do this. I can’t wait to tell Cas!_

Dean’s heart skittered as his name flashed up on the screen.

“Hey man, I was beginning to worry!” Dean laughed, phone cradled between his shoulder and ear as he dried the bristles against a worn towel. “What did Alf do, lead you up the wrong street?”

“Dean...” answered a soft voice that very clearly wasn’t Cas’s.

The skittering stopped. “... Anna?”

“Dean... something’s happened...”


	11. Chapter 11

The whirl of white walls and florescent lights flew past him as Dean ran through the hospital, barely noticing people or orderlies that he nearly ran into as charged down hallway after hallway. The only thought racing through his mind was _CasCasCasCasCas._

He nearly skidded right past the area he needed to be in, only stopping when he caught the glint of flaming red hair in his peripheries. Doubling back, he threw himself down the corridor, trying not to see the image of Anna sitting numbly in the arms of his kid brother, or Benny pacing before them, all their faces turning towards the sound of his shoes squeaking to a halt. But their faces were not the ones he wanted to see. He knew it was harsh, but at that moment he didn’t care. All he wanted was to see the face that was, from the looks of things, lying beyond the door in front of them.

A door that was being blocked by a small man in a white coat.

“Dean wait!” Benny called, anticipating his friend’s next move.

“I NEED TO SEE HIM!”

Hands held up in surrender, Benny continued to move forward, slowly edging himself between Dean and the room. “Brother, I know, and I’m not going to stop you...”

“... But I just might. Mr Winchester, I presume?”

Dean turned away from his roommate, squaring up to Mr. Labcoat; he may have had a few inches on him in height but the man screamed authority, and didn’t look like he’d be averse to having his ass kicked out of the building if the mood took him. He held out a hand which Dean didn’t take – it was petty, but Dean didn’t care for his grey curly hair or the fact he wasn’t getting out of the way. Unfazed, the man lowered it and continued, as if he put up with this kind of hostility every day.

“I’m Doctor Marvin, Chief Physician here at Brookdale. We’ve managed to stabilise Mr. Novak for the time being, but he’s sustained severe trauma to the head, suffered several broken ribs as well as damage to the liver and kidneys...” He flipped his chart notes back in to place, sighing through his nose.  “He’s been beaten up pretty bad.”

“I need to see him.” Dean echoed, the words not really going in.

“Sir, I would advise against it. There was swelling on the brain due to the head trauma. We’ve had to intubate him to regulate his breathing, and induce a deep state of unconsciousness to try to relieve the pressure...”

“Speak English!” Dean whirled, frustrated, lost and confused in amongst the terminology.

“He’s in a coma, Dean,” Sam answered softly.

Green eyes turned back to meet grey, grey eyes on a grey body that was long tired of working on the ward. Grey eyes that had seen far too much death, seen far too many lives destroyed, and knew exactly what would play out if he let this young man inside the room. Grey eyes that hoped, even for a second, that he could spare even one soul from having to endure that pain he so solemnly had to spread on a daily basis. But one look at that hardened face staring down at him told the Doctor that today was not that day.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he sighed wearily, barely stepping aside before Dean was pushing past and through the door.

The sight that greeted Dean as he entered the room seemed to slam into his gut, stealing the air from his lungs, the sound from his ears, whooshing it all from the room like a vacuum. This room should have been like every other room in the hospital; white, clean and clinical, four walls of blank nothingness that served to mask all the horrors they’d seen. Dean saw nothing, heard nothing, nothing save a small, monotonous bleep as his eyes fell on Cas.

It took forever to cross the void, the world seeping into slow motion as he stepped towards the bed, seeming so small in the centre of the big white room. The man who lay beneath its sheets looked even smaller still.

This wasn’t Cas. Not his Cas.

Not the Cas he knew and loved. The one who stuck two fingers up at the world and let nothing stand in his way. No, the Cas that lay before him was pale, bent, broken, lying still and unmoving beneath a cacophony of wires and tubes, things beeping and whirring and helping him breath all around him. This Cas that was more bruises and bandages than real living flesh. Not his Cas. _Not my Cas._

_There must be a mistake..._

Dean lingered, half collapsed at the edge of the bed, floating in a horrible state of limbo. His hands reached out, aching to touch but fearing to hurt him. Desperately hoping that the man in front of him (he couldn’t let himself to believe it was Cas. The still, bruised body before him hardly resembled the man that left his apartment not a few hours ago) was a figment of his imagination. Touching would make it real. Touching would make it true. And yet he wanted so desperately just to hold him, push aside the twisted wires and tubes, to crawl in beside him and just... hold.

_Tell me there’s been a mistake..._

And then he saw them, the one bright spot in the sea of washed out white. Propped up on the sterile side table, shining brighter than a motel’s neon sign to weary road-worn traveller - a pair of bright blue rimmed sunglasses, flecked with yellow paint. Now with a crack right down the middle.

Strong arms caught Dean before he could hit the cold lino floor, knees having buckled beneath him.

_Please... No..._

_Cas..._

*~*~*

Everyone grieved differently, that’s what the doctor said; not everyone cried, not everyone screamed, not everyone released their pain upon the world. Benny, Sam and Anna had taken his wisdom onboard, nodding sagely at his advice to give Dean time – let themselves handle their own grief and leave Dean to his. But the fact that Dean never once broke down, didn’t even shed a tear, was scarier to his friends that the thought that he would.  Instead he’d gone cold, hard, silent, taking up sentry by Cas’s bedside, eyes permanently trained on his chest as if Dean’s own force of will was keeping it moving up and down.

And there he stayed, for hours, days, he couldn’t tell, couldn’t be bothered to tell, one moment blurring into the next. Never responding to Benny’s requests of, “coffee?” Barely flinching when Anna would touch his shoulder. She was going to ask him if he wanted to look after Alfie once they finally got him back from the vets, thinking that maybe it would take Dean’s mind off of everything for a while, but Dean could barely remember to feed himself, let alone take care of an injured animal. Sam, however, couldn’t volunteer for the job quick enough.

But when Sam wasn’t taking care of Alfie or studying for his finals, he had been able to stick around the hospital the longest, and didn’t even think he’d ever seen his brother leave to use the bathroom. The only time he made a sound was when a nurse tried to persuade him to leave when official visiting hours were over, and he damn well nearly ripped her head off.

No one tried again after that.

With every hour that passed, the storm in Dean’s chest built, quelling with a silent rage that would have levelled the small room if released. Dean would have let it too, if he didn’t think each beeping, whirring piece of machinery was vital to keeping Cas alive.

“I should have been with him.” Were the first words he said, whispered into the dark nearly a week into his watch. Midnight was closing in, but he couldn’t sleep. Or didn’t want to sleep, he couldn’t really tell anymore. From the way Anna stared heavy lidded at him from across the bed, she was having the same problem. But still she unfurled herself from the pink plastic armchair.

“No you shouldn’t have.” She countered softly, reaching out to squeeze Cas’s hand. He didn’t squeeze back.

“How can you say that? Look what they did to him. If I’d have been there, I could have –“

“-Ended up in the bed right next to him. Or saved his ass. Or end up with cuts and a bruised ego.” Anna turned to look straight at Dean, not minding that he couldn’t look her back. “You reminded me once that Cas is an adult and able to make his own decisions. What were –“ She swallow thickly, taking a breath before correcting herself “-are we supposed to do, follow him forever and protect him from every little trip or stumble?” She took Dean’s hand, letting it anchor him in the void that reason couldn’t penetrate. “You and I both know he never would have stood for it.”

They sat together in silence, the lights of the Patient Monitor casting a spectral glow within the gloom. Dean would have given anything to let Anna’s words soothe him; she had that kind of way about her, her voice naturally lending itself to soothe, to balm, to heal the cuts in life with a plaster and a kiss. But guilt was a nasty bastard. It tended to cling on with claws, cutting from the inside out.

“I offered to go with him. I should have...” Dean started, but no more came out. Anna turned back towards her brother, throat clenched as a machine hissed, forcing air down into Cas’s lungs.

“What happened to Cas was an accident, one that none of us could have even imagined,” she said determinedly. Willing to believe. “That doesn’t make it our fault.”

Dean took his eyes off Cas for the briefest second as her hand turned to steel in his. Her eyes, which Dean had only ever seen soft, alight with love and humour when it came to her youngest sibling, were in the grips of hardened memories as she stared down at his prone figure – both the man she’d watched grow up and the eight year old she never thought would. They swam, shining with tears, her jaw locked tight in the desperate urge to hold them back.

_Just exactly which accident was she talking about?_

But before Dean could even blink, Anna snapped back to her normal self, so fast he was almost convinced he’d hallucinated the entire conversation; considering how long he’d been awake, that wasn’t entirely beyond the realms of possibility. Body betraying him, he yawned, and Anna instantly went into mothering mode.

“You need to get some sleep.”

“I’m fine.” He lied. Anna cocked an eyebrow his way, and Dean suddenly understood how Cas felt under that gaze.

“Fine,” she conceded, letting go of his hand, “but at least have some water. The doctor might just smite me if I let you dehydrate on his watch.” She handed him a cup off the bedside table, which Dean downed gratefully when he realised just how parched he was. It was refreshing, even for hospital water – cold and hard with a metallic tang to it – and Dean felt just a little bit better for it. So much in fact that he found himself resting his head on the edge of the bed, eyelids slowly sliding shut as gentle fingers card through his hair.


	12. Chapter 12

Nightmares were supposed to end when you woke up, but Dean couldn’t tell which was worse – the fitful, seemingly infinite dreams of Cas being tortured whilst Dean looked on helplessly, or waking up drenched in his own sweat to find that Cas was no longer there.

Or the entire hospital for that matter.

“What the fuck…” Dean rasped groggily as the apartment swam into focus. He couldn’t understand how – why – someone would take him from Cas’s bedside. He was with... Anna, wasn’t he? Even if she was strong enough, she knew Dean wouldn’t have wanted to leave...

The answer hit him like a light bulb to the head; there was only one man he knew who was strong enough to carry him home.

“Benny!” Dean yelled dangerously, feet slamming down onto the hardwood floor. He stormed from his bed and headed towards the kitchen, all the angry words battling to rip off his tongue. He wasn’t sure what he was angrier at him for – making him leave Cas or getting him out without Dean realising – but either way, Benny was going to pay.

“Before you start, I did this for your own good.” Benny said without looking up from the stove. Dean stopped short in the middle of the room, dishevelled, in nothing but flannel pants and a gaping mouth. He blinked twice, not having expected a logical reason for Benny’s actions, and tried to make his mouth do the responding thing.

“My own good? I was perfectly fine!”

Benny snorted; a ‘yeah right’ kind of snort that Dean really didn’t appreciate.

“You knew I didn’t want to leave Cas! You had no right to –“

“To do what, Dean? Worry about my best friend?” A dishcloth hit the side as Benny turned to face him, arms crossed firmly over his chest. “You didn’t eat, you barely slept. We were all worried about you – Anna, Sammy…” He squinted at that, trying to gage Dean’s reaction. In all the years he’d known Dean, the man’s number one priority had always been Sam. It was the whole reason they were living in New York in the first place – back in Kansas, when Benny first met Dean, not a week would go by where Dean didn’t have some strange new bruise that he tried to explain away. But when their father turned on Sam, Dean had them both in the Impala and leaving Lawrence in the dust, barely eighteen but willing to risk it all just to keep Sam safe. Ever since, even the slightest whiff that Sam was upset about something, no matter how big or small, Dean would charge to his rescue like the freaking Dark Knight.

Which was why a cold hand clenched in Benny’s chest when, on hearing that Sam was worried for his wellbeing, Dean did… nothing. Not even the faintest flicker of acknowledgement on his face. And that scared Benny to death.

“Besides,” Benny battled on, trying not to let his fear look obvious, “the nurses were complaining that you were startin’ to stink the place.” He’d hoped some humour might bring Dean back to his senses, but the joke elicited nothing but dagger eyes from his friend; the kind that got paired with a set jaw and clenched fists that all but succeeded in turning Benny to dust. The attempted quirk of a smile disappeared fast from Benny’s face. “Sorry for caring about your physical wellbeing.” He muttered.

Without a word Dean turned, not wanting to hear any more excuses. Grabbing a jumper off a nearby chair, he headed for the door, violently pulling it over his head as he stalked. But Benny was fast for a big guy, and had anticipated his friends move; he beat Dean to the exit before he could so much as touch the handle, filling the frame to stop Dean in his tracks. 

“Get out of my way.”

“Ain’t gonna happen Brother.” Benny’s voice was calm but firm as he held out his hands, hoping to placate the irate man before him, talk some sense into him. “You need a shower, a shave, and some food down your throat, and then I promise to take you back to Cas.”

“Not good enough.” Dean replied, stepping forward to shove his way through. He didn’t get far before Benny had hold of his shoulders, propelling Dean back into the room. Dean’s mind reeled, trying to decide whether he was shocked that Benny retaliated or angry that he wasn’t backing down.

Then his mind clicked back and he ran at Benny again, feigning left and dodging to try and escape.

“Let me out Benny.”

“No.”

“Let. Me. Out!”

“Not until – you sort – yourself – out!” Benny growled, frustrated and a little breathless. Huffing and grunting filled the apartment as they fought with each other, dancing, ducking, shoving and sidestepping, each knowing the others moves and trying to defeat them. But every time Benny successfully wrestled him away, Dean came back wilder and more determined, sweat pouring from their foreheads in their bid for freedom or failure. Dean was not letting up, all but bouncing back into the flat as he rebounded off of Benny’s chest

“Dammit Dean, don’t make me drug you again!”

The air whooshed from their lungs as silence suffocated them, deafening in its descent.

“… You did what?”

Benny groaned, rubbing a hand across his bristled chin. Dean just stood there, silent, staring.

“I’m sorry, Chief… It was the only way to get you out the hospital. The doctors gave us some sleeping pills and we put them in your water –“

“We?”

Benny really didn’t want to answer that question.

“Does it really matter?”

“Who is ‘we’ Benny?” Dean repeated, quiet anger sounding more terrible than righteous fury. There was no escaping it, Benny realised, gulping, readying himself for the pain he was about to bestow upon his best friend.

“Me, Anna and… Sammy too.”

Dean’s eyes shone with such hurt, such betrayal that Benny had to look away. But Dean had to understand, had to know why they did it, had to know that it was for his own good.

“You were no use to Cas just rottin’ in that chair. He’d want you to be out there, livin’ your life –“

“Oh, Cas came out of his coma and told you that himself did he?” Dean snarled. It was a cheap shot, but Benny barely flinched. Dean didn’t mean it, not really, he told himself. Besides, he’d had worse thrown at him in his time – angry punters didn’t like it when you refused them entry to a nightclub.

“And what about your work?” Benny countered. Dean still hadn’t moved from his spot, and it put Benny on edge; words began to spill from his mouth, racing to get out before Benny lost him for good. “The showcase? _Our_ showcase? We’ve worked so hard to get here. Cas wouldn’t want you to throw away everything we’ve been working towards for –“

“Fuck you. Fuck the showcase.” Dean spat, cold fury cutting deeper than any physical blow could. “You and the showcase can go to hell for all I care. We’re done.”

Benny felt like he’d been stabbed as Dean walked away, turning his back everything they’d had together. It would have hurt less if he’d actually been stabbed, right in the chest where he could feel it, then maybe dosed with cold water, then set alight for good measure. He watched as Dean curled in on himself, tiny and small in the humungous space, pushed up against the edge of the sofa to be as far away from Benny as possible. He watched as Dean’s eyes went dead, glassy and cold as they stared off into the distance, and kicked himself, wishing, wanting more than anything to go back in time and reverse what he’d done.

But the worst thing of all was that, despite it all, Benny knew he’d done the right thing. He’d done what he’d always done; he’d looked after Dean, protected him through thick and thin, and not even the simple truth of that helped make anything better.

 _End of the line_ Benny thought, wiping away a single, treacherous tear.

“I’m just... I’m gonna go.” He called out to Dean, not expecting a reply. His hand paused on the handle. “A shower will do you good, Dean. Go have one. And if you don’t, then I’m not above dragging your sorry ass in there.”

The door squeaked as Benny left, the only sound left in the silence.

“If he dies and I’m not there, I’ll never forgive you.”

The door stopped. Dean could still see Benny’s face in gap, downcast eyes almost hidden from view. For the briefest moment Dean thought maybe, just maybe, Benny would cave and let him go.

“I know,” came the only reply before the door clicked shut.

And Dean was alone.

*~*~*

Day turned to night before Dean’s eyes and Benny still hadn’t come home. Not that Dean cared. Or maybe he did. His mind was too frazzled to tell the difference anymore. All he knew was that the shadows were moving across floor, expanding further and further until they became the floor, the lights dimming until he couldn’t see anymore.

Dean laughed coldly to himself. _Oh, the irony._  

The entire time that he was sat there, staring at nothing, all the pent up rage, grief, anger whirled inside him like a firestorm, burning his insides to dust and bone. It was the kind of rage that should have scared him, but what was scarier was the fact it didn’t. It built and built in the silence, allowing images of faceless men sinking crowbars into Cas to spin in his mind. He bristled in the dark, sweat prickling at his skin as things began to meld, twist, distort – Cas’s face turned into Sam’s, then to Dean’s then back again with each strike of the bar, the faces above him nothing but black till they became something, someone, someone haggard and bearded and aging before his time, dark eyes and alcohol breath boring into his, a face looking too much like Dean’s with each passing day.

Dean could feel his chest tighten, rising to his feet as his heartbeat raced. Is this what his father felt every time...? Bare. Broken. Lungs too hot and limbs too cold. Pounding in his brain, pushing, punching, clawing for an escape, any escape. He paced, stopping before his canvas, the painting of bridge in the water, incomplete, the corners tailing off into white nothingness. _Dean, something’s happened..._ Hands flew to his ears. _He’s in a coma, Dean..._ “Shut up.”

_No son of mine is growing up to be an artist..._

“I said SHUT UP!”

The scream that ripped from Dean wasn’t human. But in that moment he wasn’t human. Barely even alive. Floating in and out of existence like a buoy out at sea, drums in his ears and red clouding his eyes. The animal that burst forth lashed out at the nothingness, swiping, snarling, killing anything the apartment threw his way. The boom of fists on canvas, ripping, tearing. Material rained down through what little vision he had left, bright colours of canvas and cloth floating senselessly through the black. An arm collided heavily into wood, and soon an easel went flying across the floor, crashing into corners unknown. Spinning. Dean didn’t care that his lungs burnt, that his chest heaved, that blood was slowly seeping from the cracks in his knuckles. All he could see was his father, turning faceless, crowbars, Cas, Cas lying broken in some strange bed that wasn’t theirs and _he wasn’t here and he was dying and he wasn’t there…._

Dean didn’t even register picking up the hammer till it reverberated against metal. The vibrations rang up his arm, ringing in his skin as he swung again, again, again, hitting, missing, bending, breaking, pylons twisting, savage, senseless –

“Dean!”

-kicking, crippling the structure –

“Dean stop!”

-dancing out of his reach as two arms wrapped around him –

“That’s enough Dean!” the arms picked him up, pulled him away, slammed him against the wall. Dean fought the whole way, not caring that the brickwork tore chunks out of his forearms. The pain of his flesh was naught but a speck against the tide that flowed through him. But that pain, that one bit of physic pain helped ground his senses, brought his vision tearing back.

Benny appeared before him; first eyes then ears then three day scruff, hard and unflinching against the onslaught. He may have been bigger, older, wiser, stronger than Dean in so many ways, but right then, as he took every blow Dean had to offer, he was the five year old terrified kid who just wanted his friend back.

“Please brother. Stop.”

The blows lessened as Dean choked, arms lingering longer on Benny’s chest. Throat tight as he heaved, body straining with the effort.

“He wouldn’t want this. Cas wouldn’t want this.”

And that was it.

A strange, guttural moan fell from Dean’s lips as he sank. Benny’s arms, so strong, turned as gentle as a mother’s as Dean caved in around him, capturing what remained of his best friend as he tipped forward. Shoulders shuddering as they hit the floor, Dean pressed his face into Benny’s chest, bloody hands wringing at his jacket as a whole new cry filled the loft.

And all Benny could do was hold the broken shell of Dean together as he sobbed, cradling him close, lost and alone but _together_ in the midst of the chaos around them.


	13. Chapter 13

Of all the hangovers Dean had ever woken up with, this one had to be the worst. Pain coursed through his system before he even had a chance to open his eyes; the overwhelming weight of soreness plastered his body to the sofa whilst his knuckles screamed, the skin torn and crusty, shooting tiny evil daggers up his arms as he flexed. His throat, tight and badgery, rubbed like sandpaper as he tried to swallow, the skin across his cheeks stiff with dried tears. Dean moaned into the couch, hoping the soft velvet would cushion the blow of any scrambled memories he tried to dig up from last night. His brain helpfully chose this moment to remind him that he never actually touched a drop of alcohol.

Lifting his head, Dean rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. Scenes sluggishly swirled behind his eyelids, dark and indistinct; there were hands, shouting, a lot of red, the clang of metal on metal...

Dean’s eyes flew open as he shot upright.

The floor was covered in a mass array of hacked and ripped shreds of coloured material that Dean, at first, couldn’t identify. He stood up, walking through the mess at it spread out before him, blanket hung over his shoulders like a king in a sea of death and destruction. A hacked chair, a hammer, a few broken bottles. Broken sticks of wood that, once, made up a square wooden frame. He just stared at them dumbly until the realisation clicked into place. _My canvases. I destroyed my canvases._

And just as he couldn’t feel any worse, there, slumped low in the middle of the chaos, was the once proud remains of Benny’s masterpiece. Dean’s stomach dropped as he took it all in; the clean lines now twisted, buckled and broken at almost every turn, actual chunks of metal chopped clean off the infrastructure. How it was all still standing was a testament to Benny’s soldering skill. But his months of hard work? Destroyed in one night. _He’s never going to forgive me._

As if he could hear the sound of Dean’s inner turmoil, Benny appeared. Dean froze, closing his eyes, waiting for the beat down he’d thoroughly earned, trying to ignore the smell of bacon floated through the kitchen door as Benny leaned nonchalantly against it, arms folded, coffee in hand. Dean didn’t deserve bacon, or coffee, ever again. Benny slurped slowly, taking in the bedraggled state that was his friend (Dean wondered if he could still call himself that), the floor, the apartment in general... Benny’s gaze swept it all, lingering on artwork. Dean stood there like a fish out of water, mouth flapping, looking for the right words, if there were any. 

“Benny… your work… I’m, I’m so, so sorry…”

“I think I like it.”

_Huh?!_

Dean nearly gave himself whiplash with how fast he turned to look at his friend; surely he misheard him, or it was just wishful thinking. But there Benny stood, a giant in the rubble, gazing thoughtfully at the structure before him.

“Been thinkin’ it’s been missing something for a while. ‘A Study in Grief.’” He tested the name aloud, seeming to like the fit. “Really gives it something, dont’cha think?”

Dean sagged. “Benny…”

“Shame I’ll have to give you a portion of the sale now, given it’s now technically a joint effort –“

“Benny, you don’t have to lie to me…”

“When have I ever lied to you, brother?” Benny asked, finally looking Dean in the eye.

Dean couldn’t believe Benny was being so... casual about it all. He felt so small, wringing his hands, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “But I ruined –“

“You ain’t ruined nothing.” Benny told him firmly, stepping forward suddenly. Dean winced, and Benny slowed. Carefully, ever so carefully, he placed his big, meaty hands either side of Dean’s face.

“Look at me. Dean, look at me.” Dean looked up, big green eyes staring straight into blue. They were different than Cas’s, lighter maybe, but they held kindness and comfort just the same.

“You ain’t ruined nothing, brother.” He promised.

Dean shook his head, refusing to believe his words. “Benny, what I said yesterday, what I did... I’m so sorry.”

“It’s ok Dean.”

“It’s not! I shouldn’t have said... I didn’t mean...”

Benny laughed quietly. “You kinda did. But then I kinda deserved it.”

Dean couldn’t look at him in that moment. He swallowed, biting his lip as salty tears began to fall down his face. So Benny pulled him forward, holding him tight, letting Dean take all the time he needed. After everything he’d put him through, everything he said... _How did I get so lucky?_

“Don’t know what I’d do without you, Benny.”

Benny looked up, surveying the room behind Dean, humour in his voice as he answered truthfully. “Total the apartment, apparently. But it’s nothin’ we can’t fix. Everything’ll be alright.”

Benny could feel Dean’s nod on his shoulder, and he smiled. It felt good to have the old Dean back.

 “Come on.” Benny grumphed, pulling Dean back and nodding determinedly. “Visiting hours start in ten. Let’s go see if they’ll let you back in.”

*~*~*

“The doctors are looking after him, you know,” came a gentle voice from the doorway. The doctors had removed some bandages from Cas’s face in the time Dean had been away, and there weren’t quite as many tubes and things sticking out of his skin. But his condition hadn’t changed. So Dean had stayed. Nothing but the machine beeps and shallow breaths to keep him company. _How could Cas look so peaceful and so broken at the same time?_

“I know,” Dean replied, too tired to turn around, voice drained of emotion. He’d been back at Cas’s bedside a little over a day, and it was already getting to him. How he’d survived that long stretch without sleep was beyond his comprehension – Dean finally understood why they’d all been worried about him.

“Which means,” Sam continued, plopping his long legged body into the chair opposite “you don’t have to be here 24/7. Go home. Take a shower. Get a decent night’s sleep for god’s sake. Let Benny, Anna and I look after him for a while.”

Not even a twitch in response. Just because Dean understood didn’t mean he had to learn from his mistakes. It was like talking to a brick wall which, to be honest, Sam had kind of expected. He pushed on, treading lightly.

“Don’t you have a collection to restart?”

“Benny told you.” Dean answered dully. It wasn’t so much a question as a statement of fact.

“Actually he didn’t have to. I left a textbook in your apartment last week and went back to get it this morning. You really did a number on the place.” What remaining colour he had left drained from Dean’s face, and Sam kicked himself for the guilt that was ravaging Dean. He looked so small. So sad.

“I didn’t...?”

“Nah, the book’s fine. And the flat will be too once we tidy it up a bit.” Dean practically collapsed with relief. Sam swallowed. “But your paintings... I don’t think we can fix any of them.” Dean turned back to the comatose man between them.

“I don’t care about them. All I care about is Cas.”

A quiet rage seethed in Sam’s stomach at those words, a rage he’d been trying to quell for days now. It wasn’t Cas’s fault that he’d ended up in hospital, he knew that, and holy hell what he wouldn’t do to the guys who put him there if he ever found them. And the Dean he knew - the Dean he’d grown up with, the one who broke them free of their father, made it here, clawed them tooth and nail from the back seat of their car to the lives they had today – would have been exactly the same. But this Dean, the one who sat before him sporting three-day old stubble and yesterday’s shirt, was a shell of the brother he once knew. Dean had done everything he could to save Sam. And now it was Sam’s turn to try and do the same.

“And I care about you, Dean! You’re exhausted. And a month is not a lot of time to create new work. You need to take care of you for a change.” Dean laughed hollowly.

“I’ve spent my whole life taking care of you, Sammy. Before that I was taking care of Dad, now Cas...” His voice broke. It scared Sam how lost Dean looked as he admitted, whispered, “I’m not sure I know how to take care of myself.”

“Then start with this,” Sam decided determinedly, leaning forward to look Dean straight in the eye. He reached for Dean’s shoulder, though it took great restraint on his part not to shake the sense into him. “This showcase could set you up for life! Cas wouldn’t want you moping around here! He’d want you working your ass off, making your best work to give yourself the best possible chance! Give yourself that chance, Dean! And if you can’t do it for you, then - then for fucks sake do it for him! Or he won’t be the only one kicking your ass from here to Sunday.” Hot, out of breath, he flopped back into his seat, hoping against hope that his speech would help get through to him; stir Dean into action, or at the very least stir him into leaving the room. And for a hot second he thought he’d done it, thought he saw a light in the depths of his brother’s dead eyes.

But the fire died as quickly as it arrived, leaving nothing but ash in defeat.

“It doesn’t matter either way. He wouldn’t see it.” Dan reached for Cas’s hand. “He, he was – _is_ – my muse. My inspiration. I finally found him and they took him away –“ Dean shuddered, drawing a ragged breath. “What’s the point in creating art if Cas can’t even see...”

Dean eyes suddenly seemed to focus as they landed on Cas’s fingers, tangled up in his own, face scrunched as if seeing them for the first time.

“That’s it...” He muttered.

“What’s it?” Sam asked, watching his brother warily, watching as the fire rekindled, burning brighter and brighter, freeing him of all that bogged him down. Creases eased from his skin as the sun dawned in his eyes. He barely had time to express his confusion before Dean leapt up from his chair, nearly sending Sam reeling from his own.

“Cas, you’re a genius!” Dean cried, lunging to kiss the one bruise free space on his forehead. Then he turned to Sam, eyes dancing with feverish excitement, and Sam’s heart ached with hope at the small curve of a smile peeking out from Dean’s face.

“What’s the plan?”

But Dean was already out the door, sprinting past a startled looking Anna.

“I’m gonna help Cas see!”


	14. Chapter 14

Dean spent the next couple of days in a haze of buying, bringing and building, trekking all sorts of crap through the flat as he went. Everything from planks, to fans, to dirt crossed their threshold – Benny swore he’d even cleaned up grass at one point, although he’d yet to find what Dean was using it for. He, Anna and Sam had no idea what was going on, and chalked it up to some sort of mental break, especially when they caught Dean asking a still unconscious Cas which colour material he preferred from a pack of swatches. They’d considered getting the doctors involved, but that would involve Dean staying put in one place for more than five seconds to catch him.

So they left him be. Apart from Jody of course.

"Hey, how you doing kid?"

 

 _Kid?_ Dean stopped in his tracks, nearly dropping the sacks of soil he was carrying. _She hasn't called me 'kid' in nearly five years._

 

"I'm fine Jody. Doing fine." He answered as upbeat as he could muster. The silent scream of disbelief ran between them.

 

"Don’t make me use my mom voice, Dean. How are yo-"

 

"Change the topic Jody!" Eyes squeezed shut he forced himself to stop, quell the anger and wait out the hammering in his chest. "Please." He continued in a barely there whisper. "I've been doing real good with distracting myself lately, so just - just ask me something else. Anything."

 

Jody took a second to reply, weighing up whether that was a good idea or not. But it wasn't often Dean asked for something, so she chose to let it go.

 

"Alrighty. It’s about the showcase. Do you want me to postpone it?"

 

_Wait. What?_

 

"I've talked to the curators,” she sped on, clearly taking Dean’s silence as an answer, “and I think I can wangle the dates to later on in the year -"

 

"-Jody-"

 

"-it may have to be in a smaller room, and there might not be as many critics -"

 

"-Jody-"

 

"-but given everything that's happened they said they might be willing to -"

 

"-Jody!" Dean finally broke through "Don't do that. You busted your ass to get us that gig, don't throw it down the toilet on my account."

 

Jody countered, sounding unsure. "But... your work, Benny said there was a mishap..."

 

"Oh there was. But I'm on it as we speak." Literally; the shallow wooden tub he was standing in was just waiting to be filled with soil. "It'll be fine, I promise. So for once in your life, don't worry about me. I'll be ready. And besides," he chuckled, hoping to lighten the mood, "if I'm not, I think I succeeded in making Benny's work fill the extra space."

 

The sound of Jody's laughter was like music to his ears, and he suddenly wondered when was the last time he heard someone laugh. "I'm always gonna worry about you, Dean. I'm a mom, it's what we do. But ok, I trust you." She paused, letting both of them bathe in the swell of relief.

 

“Hey Jodes?”

 

“Yeah Dean?”

 

“Thanks. You know... for everything.”

 

He could hear Jody swallow thickly down the phone. She knew Dean. He didn’t just come out and say stuff like that, and when he did... well, she knew he meant it. "That Cas is a great influence on you."

 

"He's much more than that.” Dean answered, his own lump rising in his throat. “He's my Donna."

 

*~*~*

“Dean, wait, what are you –“

“Just hold still!”

“Can’t I just keep my eyes closed -?”

“No, there can’t be any chances of peeking. No spoiling the surprise.” For once, Dean didn’t feel the need to prove his point in any way, trusting that Sam would understand why he needed to just do this. He was too nervous to even mess around with Sam’s hair, instead gently finger combing the locks out of the way before tying the final knot tight. Sam huffed, but he relented; there was usually method to Dean’s madness after all. Besides, he was more than a little curious to finally discover what Dean had been working on.

At least, as long as that was what Dean was really doing. Boyfriend in a coma or not, if he found himself in a barber’s chair Sam was going to deck him.

“Ok,” Dean said finally, stepping away from the blindfold and taking Sam’s arm. “You ready? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Sam squinted. The black sash was unrelenting. “I dunno... three?”

“Wrong. Porno mag!” Dean proclaimed a little happier than was necessary. Sam almost didn’t believe him till a soft gust hit his face, the sound of skittering pages flying through the air, ending in a thudding skid to his left.

“Gross, Dean.”

“Had to know it was working,” came the only explanation, before Sam felt himself being gently guided towards... somewhere. Round and round the floor until he was struggling to remember exactly where he was in the flat. If he was perfectly honest Sam really wasn’t enjoying the disorientation of being blindfolded; sure it was fun when you were a kid, being spun and asked to pin a tail onto a donkey’s ass, but as the minutes ticked on the itch to rip the sash off his face grew stronger and stronger.  Hearing the littlest creaks, the whisper of Dean’s breath, but not knowing _exactly_ where it was coming from was eerie as fuck, and putting that much trust into his brother to lead him to the right place and not to the edge of a staircase (as childhood memories served correctly) made him more vulnerable than he had felt in years.

 _How does anyone do this?_ He thought, before the answer made his stomach turn with guilt. _Cas did - does this. Every. Single. Day._

“Dean, I swear to god –“

“Calm down Sasquatch we’re nearly done. Just trying for a little emersion.” Sam felt himself coming to a halt, hands moving to his shoulders and twisting him to the left. “Now sit!”

Knees bending slowly, he sat down more gingerly than he’d ever done in his life, hands grasping, reaching around him to try and find the thing he was supposed to be landing on.  Dean almost laughed at how ridiculous Sam looked right now, long limbs whirling like windmills, but he was too worried that Sam was going to hit the things dangling around him and spoil the surprise. Then the hollow laugh caught in his throat, tears threatening the edges of his eyes as his mind tricked Sam’s hair into turning shorter, darker, the flash of electric blue dancing behind his eyelids; Sam’s staggering, unsure steps were nothing on the smooth fluidity of Cas’s, but it reminded him of his boyfriend just the same.

He was so tired; physically, mentally tired of how raw he was, tired of how even the stupidest little thing reminded him of Cas – yesterday it had been Alfie’s dog food bowl, the day before he’d pressed the wrong button on the traffic lights - but he was determined not to let himself be dragged down by it today. Furiously shaking his head, he swallowed, choking down the sob, and thanked his lucky stars that Sam’s stupid sash was tied tightly in place.

Eventually Sam was seated, and Dean could breathe again.

“Ok, now, describe where you are.”

The black sash did little to hide the ‘what the fuck’ face Sam was sporting right now.

“I still can’t see!”

“You have four other senses dude. Use them.”

And use them he did; Sam released a hand from the squishy arm of the chair and let it waft about in the air around him. Suddenly, he brushed up against something worn, something – he grabbed it between two fingertips – leathery? Hard leather, like there was a wooden back to it. He let go, grabbing again with his other hand. This strip felt a bit different. Thinner, more flexible, he could bend it between his fingers. There were a whole host of them actually, floating almost in a ring around him, fluttering, swaying gently through the air as he ran his hands over them. As he breathed in he smelt something too, something different from the usual scent of hot solder and paint that came hand in hand with the flat. This time it was... paper? It tickled his nose. Old paper. Paper and dust. Paper and dust and the heat of warm of sunlight on his back. Sam smiled a little as the sensation soothed at his shoulders; it felt just like when he walked through the book stacks of his local - 

Dean’s heart nearly burst as a look of realisation dawned on his brother’s face, open mouth gaping beneath the sash. “Dude, are we – are we in a library?!”

“Yes!” Dean cried, nearly sinking to his knees in blessed relief. _It worked, it worked, it fucking worked!_ “Well, no we’re not, we’re still at home, but – look, get over here and see!”

Ripping the blindfold off in his excitement, Sam turned and backed away from where he’d been sitting, letting the sight before him unfold before his eyes.

There was indeed a leather chair, cracked and brown but with gorgeous wooden legs, well-worn and well used. Suspended around it in the air were tiny strings, each containing bits of leather and paper dangling off of them, each emitting the scent of dust and the stories they carried with them. Two tall squares of wood sat either side of the seat (probably where the sense of closeness came into play) and above it all sat a heated light, just warm enough to give a sense of safety and comfort.

It was a library. It was a library in all but name.

“You did it Dean!” Sam smiled proudly, hooking an arm over his brothers’ shoulder to hug him tight. “I think you finally did it!”


	15. Chapter 15

“Anyone been with Cas today?” Dean asked, weary from his day’s work. Benny gave him a small smile; the garbled message he’d received from Sam just reeked of success, and he was glad something was coming up trumps for Dean.

Because in the small white room? Yeah, not so much.

“Anna was with him earlier, but had to take off for some emergency school meeting. Then this short blond guy took over for a bit.” Benny took a slurp of his coffee, nose wrinkling at the odour before offering it to Dean. Dean shook his head. “Brother maybe? Only saw him from the back, but I heard him ranting and raving on the phone till the nurse came and kicked him out. Something about ‘catch the bastards who did this before I do’” Benny was deep in thought, stirring his coffee listlessly. “Couldn’t work out if he was talking to cops or a mafia hitman.”

“From what I’ve heard about Gabriel, I’d pick the hitman.” Dean smiled, a small, weak smile that really wasn’t worth smiling about. Without needing to ask, Benny left the room, clapping Dean on the shoulder and leaving him alone with Cas. He took up his usual position on the chair next to him, reach to hold his unfeeling hand tight. The one that gave him the idea for his final, completed showcase.

The chorus of clinical beeps echoed in the silence around them.

“You dumb sonofabitch,” he muttered, finally, after all these weeks, having the strength to speak his mind. To speak to Cas at all, really.

Because Dean couldn’t deny it any longer; it wasn’t looking good. Every day Cas didn’t wake up his odds got worse, and Dean couldn’t stand it if he didn’t tell Cas everything he need to before... before...

“You just had to be all independent and stubborn and insist on walking home alone didn’t you? You couldn’t just give in for once and let me help you without asking. Had to go do it by yourself didn’t you?”

Dean gasped, trying not to get angry again before continuing.

“But then that’s why I fell in love with you wasn’t it? Your stubbornness, your independence, your resolve to do everything for yourself despite what the world wanted you to do. You took your blindness, and the world’s need for you to be meek and needy and incapable of doing things yourself in one hand, and stuck a finger up to the world with the other.” Dean clasped those fingers tight, willing himself to continue.

“Here’s the thing Cas – I’m stubborn too. And no matter how stubborn you want to be about coming back or not coming back, know this - you’re not allowed to leave me, got that? ‘It was going to be you and me against the world.’” Dean stared down at his beautiful, unmoving face, just willing it to respond. Anything.

“See? I watched your weird, dorky movies with you. X-Men. 4-3 to me. You can’t lose to me now Cas,” he choked, eyes itching with tears he didn’t know he had left, “I’m – I’m not as strong as you so if you leave - if I’m alone…” His voice broke just thinking about the inevitable “I won’t survive. So you’ve gotta stay alive, ok? Please, Cas?”

Only the beeps and whirs answered back, as they always did, and Dean buried his head into the thin bed sheets, letting the tears weep and flow without judgement.

“Please?”

Then a machine did a beep it wasn’t supposed to. And a hand gripped his tight like he was told it was never going to.

“...Dean?”

Deans head snapped up, gripping that hand tight as he breathed, disbelieving “Cas?”

And for the first time in sixteen years, Cas didn’t open his eyes to darkness. He saw pink and tan, framed in white, and despite the fuzziness, two shining orbs of deep, deep green that he didn’t think he’d be able to look away from again.

“Well,” Cas croaked, quirking a smile that Dean kissed from his lips, “aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”


	16. Epilogue

_Two Weeks Later_

“Stop fidgeting, he’s just running a little late,” Benny scolded humorously, plucking the near shredded program out of Dean’s clenched hand before stooping to adjust his tie.

The night they’d been dreaming of their entire lives was finally here. The Lehmann was bustling with activity, people from all over the city (and in some cases, the country) in their most elegant finery having come specifically to gaze upon Dean and Benny’s work; Benny’s towering, twisted metal sculptures set up in spotlights in the middle of the floor, whilst Dean’s displays, each one boxed off to separate them from the next, circled them as they sat against the walls. Jody, clipboard in hand, was a vision in red as she flitted from piece to piece, charming the pants off the old, rich folk who were interest in buying some art.

Well, all except the last one. The last one was a surprise.

In amongst the crowd were a couple of faces Dean recognised – Donna, who’d spotted Dean in a second and enveloped him in a hug, was currently trying to feed her girlfriend stolen vole-au-vents. Sam, obviously, as well as Uncle Bobby, who’d arrived with Aunt Ellen and Cousin Jo, looking perfectly out of place in his baseball cap. Even Meg from the coffee shop was here, arm in arm with the dark haired man who’d shouted at her. Dean’s eyebrows rose, though he was not wholly surprised. _The makeup sex must be incredible._

But for once in his life, the judging, scrutinising faces of the ones that had a hand in making or breaking his career, was not what Dean was worried about.

“You heard the Doc, it may be too soon! What if he got worse? What if –“

Benny laughed. “Cas could have his legs ripped off by a speeding train, and he still wouldn’t miss this for the world. Don’t worry, he’ll be here.” Dean nodded. Benny was right. Of course he was right.

But Dean still kept one eye trained of the front door when Benny wasn’t looking.

The last few weeks had gone by in a blur – since Cas woke up it, had been a whirlwind of tests, tests and more tests, Doctors prodding and poking and taking more blood than Dean had thought possible. He reckoned they’d probably seen every inch of the hospital, what with Cas being dragged from this ward to that, long walks down seemingly endless corridors as he followed Cas’s bedside. But Dean couldn’t complain. Not with Cas’s fingers laced with his, brilliant smile beaming, pretending he was flying as his wheels squeaked across the lino.

Not that it had been all unicorns and rainbows; the doctors couldn’t pinpoint exactly how Cas’s sight had returned, something to do with ‘swelling’ and ‘pressure’ and ‘dislodged clot’ but Dean couldn’t follow the lingo. What they could agree on was that over a decade’s worth of damage had taken its toll on Cas’s optical nerve, and Doctor Marvin, the optimist that he was, had stressed to Cas that he’d never regain his full sight back, that it would remain fuzzy and out of focus. Cas didn’t care. Not until they told him that it could all be temporary, a side effect of his recovery. He stayed strong, listening intently and nodding in all the right places, until the doctor left, and then cried himself to sleep on Dean’s shoulder.

But Cas, as he’d done all his life, decided he wasn’t going to let it get him down. He was going to take what he’d been given and run like hell with it.

It was so much fun watching Cas rediscover the little things for the second time in his life; from the colour of his sister’s hair as he ran it through his fingers, to the cars driving past his window (the resulting game of Yellow Car went on for quite some time. Dean had the bruises to prove it). Every nurse in the joint had fallen a little in love with Cas as he earnestly complimented their nails, their eyes, the scrubs they wore that day, his smile shining a little brighter with each cheek that blushed. Dean couldn’t wait to take him outside for real – Cas was gonna go nuts for the autumn colours.

Much to his dismay, Dean couldn’t be there for Cas every second of the day.  Not through lack of trying – the hospital staff were even thinking of engraving his chair with his name when they eventually left. But one piece of art did not equal a gallery showcase, and when Cas found out what had happened with his paintings ( _thanks Sammy!_ ) he packed Dean off back home with a kiss and the crack of his cane.

“Dean, it’s just going to be me failing to read a bunch of Stereogram cards. Go, I’ll be fine!”

So whenever Cas got wheeled off to Visual Therapy, Dean got stuck into finishing the last of his pieces for the Lehmann, thanking all the deities along the way that he had such great friends around him – Jody came into the city specially to deal with face-to-face promotion and liaison for the event, just so Dean could focus (well, that’s what she said anyway. Dean just assumed she wanted the job done correctly, and who knows what would happen if he was let loose on upper class gallery curators). Benny, having finished his own structures ages ago, the fucker, worked till the wee hours helping Dean solidify and fine tune his final product. He even found a way of dismantling each unit for transport and easy reassembly without anything breaking in the process.

“I can get six-foot-tall metal across town in under an hour, Chief. Keeping a wall upright’s a piece of cake.”

And now here they were, sipping champagne and wearing ridiculous tuxes in the heart of one of the city’s most prestigious galleries, just as the most beautiful work of art happened to walk through the door.

Dean’s heart soared as his breath flew away – Cas was a vision, clad in the tight black pants and vest that he’d picked out the first time they went shopping together, complete with the silk blue tie Dean had chosen that day. Time seemed to stand still as Dean watched him from across the room, like something straight out of the movies Cas was still trying to make him watch. He was gorgeous as he stood there, scanning the crowd in a way that brought a lump to Dean’s throat; that fact that Cas was now able to perform such a simple task made Dean giddy with happiness. Then Dean noticed the glasses perched on the end of his nose; No longer the black lenses Dean had come to know but clear, finally showcasing those stunning blue eyes to the world. And they were framed perfectly by sky blue, studded with tiny little paintings of bees as they finally landed on him.

Dean smiled. He wouldn’t have had Cas any other way.

Even Alfie, now back in the safety of Cas’s hands, looked rather dashing in his black bow tie, clipped lopsidedly to his collar. Dean didn’t even have to throw a questioning glance Cas’s way to work out who was responsible – not just for the attire. Galleries, especially big ones like the Lehmann, weren’t really in the habit of letting four legged creatures onto their premises. Unless they were stuffed and mounted behind glass – before Cas responded, mouthing the only answer that could possibly make sense: Gabriel.

_I should’ve known._

“Sorry we’re late,” Cas said breathlessly, as he finally made it across the room. “I made Anna stop off at Times Square. I couldn’t stop looking at the lights as we drove past – did you know they made lights that big? There was so much colour and it was all moving and –“

Dean couldn’t stop the tears that were prickling his eyes – apparently crying was a thing he did now – but honestly, he didn’t want to. Just the sheer joy that radiated from Cas’s face was more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen. The kind of beauty that couldn’t be captured in paint or oils. Just memories. And this was one he would keep till the end.

“I don’t care, I’m just so glad you’re here.” Dean wasn’t 100% sure what he meant exactly by ‘here’ – the gallery, alive, in his life – but whichever it was, he meant it with all his heart. Cas ducked his head in a shy smile, reaching out to take Dean’s fingertips.

“Me too.” He whispered, placing a small kiss on Dean’s lips. Dean smiled a shaky smile and wiped his eyes dry.

“Come on,” he said, gripping Cas’s hand tight. “I’ve got something to show you.”

Passing Alfie off into Benny’s capable hands, they weaved their way through the crowd, waving hello’s and making introductions to people as they passed, until Dean stopped them in front of the last of his pieces, which was blocked off by a white sheet to hide everything from view. Dean had made Jody promise everyone who’d asked that they would open it later. But there was one person who had to see it first.

Cas gave him a questioning look as Dean pulled open the curtain. Propelling him in by the small of his back, Dean stood aside, letting Cas take in the scene around him, blinking in confusion as his eyes adjusted to the sudden gloom. Then Cas looked up.

“Dean?” he breathed in hushed awe.

That one little booth held the simplest, yet most important, of all his works; Dean had set up a carpet of grass, which he grew all by himself in a big crate box, lying down against the tiled floor. Flanked on either side were a boom box and a fan, perfectly positioned so that when Cas leaned back against the dewy blades (which Dean had quickly spritzed whilst Cas turned round) he could feel the gentle breeze against his face, the sound of cicadas chirping around them. And as Dean lay beside him Cas looked up, eyes growing wider and wider, taking in the best bit of all.

There, attached to the ceiling, were the stars. Not rudimentary, five point stars he remembered drawing as a child. Not a splatter of white paint on black like his brother has told him. These were an infinite cosmos captured on canvas, the swirl of pinks and blue and purples and other colours he couldn’t even imagine dotted intricately with tiny drops of sunshine, scattered in a way that seemed random, unique, yet utterly thought out all at the same time. Patterns began to emerge, and Cas gasped, clutching Dean’s hand as he recognised what they were – seven stars clustered together to form the inexplicable shape of a ladle. As Cas turned back to face Dean - beautiful, brave, brilliant Dean - the grass tickled his nose, and he was back in their field again.

Dean had done it; he’d captured the experience of stars. Or in this case, Castiel’s experience of stargazing.

 “Dean. It’s – it’s so –“ For the first time since they’d met, Cas didn’t know what to say. But that was ok; Dean didn’t need him to say it. The fact that he was there said it all.

*~*~*

“Deano! The man, the myth, the legend, at last!” Dean turned at the sound of the small man coming up behind him, all swept hair, cheeky chap smile and swagger in his walk. He and Cas had finally made it out of their booth more than a little rumpled, much to Benny’s amusement. Sam had wrinkled his nose at the sight of them – it was a younger brother’s prerogative, after all – but was glad to see the two of them so happy. Jody only quit fussing when they gave her the go ahead to open the last exhibit. “Glad to finally meet you buddy, I can finally put a face to the name Cassie’s been yacking about all summer.” He took Dean’s hand in a hearty handshake, somehow pumping it enthusiastically without spilling a drip of his drink. There was something familiar about the man, but nothing Dean could put his finger on – he’d have remembered the guy if they’d met before. It wasn’t until he sent a questioning look to Cas, strategically placed behind the guy’s shoulder, that he responded to with a tight-lipped smile and a weary, but fond, nod. _Yes. This is him._

“…Gabriel?”

“My reputation precedes me!” Gabe smiled jovially, clearly happy with the lasting impression he’d left on total strangers.

Dean laughed nervously, unsure what to make of the guy. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All bad things I hope,” he winked. And up until that moment Dean hadn’t 100% believed Cas and Anna’s stories about the guy; always had a niggling thought that surely, surely they’d been embellishing their tales of their older brother. That he wasn’t quite the jokester, the prankster, the smooth talking con artist they’d made him out to be.

But one wink. One wink from those amber eyes was all it took for Dean to believe every single word.

“Entertaining I think is the word, sir.”

“Cassie! You can keep him! He called me ‘sir’!” Gabe crowed, leaning back to throw an arm around his younger brother’s shoulders. Dean nearly snorted as Cas rolled his eyes; he’d been expecting Dean to punch his brother, not hit it off with him.

Gabe took a noisy slurp of his drink. “Now before I finish buying up your entire collection, I need to have a word with my darling brother here. Stay put!” he ordered, booping Dean’s nose, then turning and pulling Cas away. Dean laughed as he watched Gabe wander off, sauntering across the gallery with poor Cas in tow, before the man’s parting words settled on him. Dean’s face scrunched in confusion.

_He’s joking right? He can’t really buy –_

“He wasn’t joking, hon,” Jodie called, startling Dean into whipping round to face her. “Gabriel Novak just offered double the asking price on all your works. Benny’s too. Plus –“ she rifled through their portfolio, as if she hardly believed what she was saying either “- and I quote, ‘first dibs’ on any and all future collections and works you two handsome chaps make.” She couldn’t conceal the smile on her face any longer. “Congrats kid, you got yourself a lifelong investor.”

Dean whooped with joy, a sound he didn’t know was possible for him to make, arms punching the air before scooping Jody into a bear sized hug, lifting her off her feet and swinging her around. His mind raced, thought after thought chasing each other for dominance. _We’re going to be ok! We could buy out the flat – Sam won’t have to worry about school – take a goddamn holiday – I did it! I did it Ididitididit!_

He had Jody out of his arms just long enough for someone else to run into them. Dean caught them, nearly toppling over as they jumped, and dark hair tickling his ear as silk brushed beneath his fingertips.

“It’s mine! It’s finally mine!” Cas garbled, eyes swimming with tears as he pulled away. Dean held his face, cradled in both hands, relieved and worried at the same time.

“Cas slow down, what’s yours?”

“The shop Dean! Gabe just told me he signed over the deeds to my name.” He replied, slightly awed, as if not quite believing it was real. But the papers scrunched between his hand and Deans shoulder were real enough, when Dean managed to prise them apart to read it. “It’s mine. The shop is really mine. I’m finally, finally independent!”

“Cas, I’m so happy for you!” Dean cried, pulling him back into his hug as pride burst in his chest. Everything was finally going their way.

And as they flew through the streets of downtown New York, standing up through the sunroof of the limo they borrowed from Gabe, champagne in hand and a sky full of stars spilling out above them, they knew no matter what the future had in store for them, that they were going to be ok.

**THE END**


	17. Afterword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got asked a couple of questions in the comments section about the future of Cas and Dean in this fic, and I loved the head cannons so much I decided to add them here for your enjoyment too <3

_Out of curiosity, does Cas ever lose his sight again? Did it really turn out to be temporary?_

Oh I wish I could tell you that Cas kept his sight for all of time; that he lived out his days being able to see the sunlight, the colours of the wind, the green of Dean's eyes... but all good things must come to an end.

In my mind, Cas got a good 15 years with his sight, and he and Dean used their time wisely - they travelled the world, visiting every unique corner that Cas could only dream about. And every time, they took photos so that when they came home Dean could paint them to hang in the bookstore. He made sure they were extra bright and textured so that the kids and customers could 'see' where they'd been, and Cas would help add to the experience any way he could - leaving freshly cooked bread out next to the painting of Paris. Crushed garam masala by the one of the New Delhi market. The gentle 'sqwark' of seagull and ocean waves after their trip to Cornwall.

But old age gets to the best of us, and the news of his deteriorating eyesight was broken to Cas aged 40. Dean was by his side, holding his hand tight the entire time - he hadn't wanted it to be true, but after Cas had bumped into the kitchen table for the fifth time that week he'd booked an appointment, much to Cas's displeasure. He held Cas just as tight in the months that followed, the darkness of night scaring Cas whenever he awoke, fearing that his sight was gone for good.

But just like everything else, they got through it together, and on the last day Dean took Cas by the hand and walked him through Fort Tryon, back to the balcony overlooking the river. Back to where they both began.

"Just look at that view," Dean asked, echoing that first day, long ago. "Isn't it beautiful?"

"Oh yes," Cas replied with a smile, as the sun filled the sky with radiant fire. "I can really see what you were on about. Gorgeous."

And this time, he meant every word.


End file.
